The rain poured in cold sheets, soaking through the city's ancient bones and turning every surface slick. Edinburgh always wore its history like a bruise, beautiful in the way old wounds sometimes are. I moved fast, coat pulled close, heels clicking across the damp cobblestones as I exited the forensic lab.
Most people hated the cold here. I didn't. The rain helped. It blurred the edges of things, like old memories that tried too hard to be seen.
The folder in my arm was fat with autopsy photos and blood reports, things that made sense, unlike the noise of living people. My mind was elsewhere, dissecting traces of arsenic from a closed case, when—
Wham!
I slammed hard into a wall. No—not a wall. A man.
My heel skidded on wet stone, the folder burst open in the air, and I felt gravity pull me backward. But I didn't fall. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, catching me just in time. My breath hitched, half from the jolt, half from the closeness. Rain slid between us.
"Whoa! Easy there," a voice said, low and deep, tinged with a heavy Italian accent.
Before I could respond, we both dropped down at the same time to retrieve the scattered papers. And—
Clack!
Our foreheads bumped. Hard.
"Agh!" I hissed.
"Madonna—sorry!" he winced, one hand to his brow. "You alright?"
I sat back on my heels, blinking through a sudden laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I think my brain's still attached."
He laughed too, genuine and surprised. His smile softened his sharp features, and for a second, the moment felt strangely... normal. We kept picking up pages, now wet and wrinkled. I glanced up, and he was already looking at me. That's when I saw him clearly. He was too clean for this city. Black gloves, tailored coat, hair slicked back but not stiff. His cologne hit me again, warm, expensive, edged with something darker.
He stood, handed me the last page. "Guess I should've looked where I was going."
"You think?" I raised an eyebrow, still a bit breathless. "Maybe next time don't body-check strangers in the rain."
He chuckled, and then extended his hand.
"Lorenzo," he said. "Lorenzo Accardi."
The name hit me like a bullet to the chest.
Accardi.
Gunfire in the halls. My grandfather's blood pooling at my feet. The roar of fire licking the walls of our estate. His family's symbol etched in the broken marble floor.
Memories flashed in front of my eyes but I didn't flinch. I've trained every muscle in my body to obey when my past tries to rise. My expression didn't shift, my voice didn't crack.
"Seraphine," I said as softly as possible. "Just Seraphine."
He smiled at my name, casual, almost amused. But I was already pulling away.
He didn't know me. Not truly.
Not in the lines etched behind my composed smile, not in the silence between my words, and certainly not in the scars the world couldn't see, carved by bullets, loss, and a name his bloodline made synonymous with death.
To him, I was no one. Just a woman in the rain with a crooked folder and a half-laughed apology. And that was exactly what I needed to be. I gave him a soft, effortless laugh. Then I turned on my heel, and walked into the rain without looking back.
He didn't know me.
And he couldn't.
If Lorenzo Accardi was here, then my past wasn't as buried as I thought. But I had decided the past was a locked door. And has to remain that way. But why was I feeling the key turning? No. I won't allow it.
To be continued..