SERENA'S POV
The note arrived inside a bouquet of white lilies.
I almost missed it. Someone in the south of the city had sent flowers to the house — condolences for Don Enzo, the card said, signed with a name I didn't recognize, which was already suspicious because nobody outside the family was supposed to know where I was staying. The bouquet came up to my room because one of the maids had asked what to do with it and I'd told her to put them on my desk like a person who had no particular interest in lilies.
I waited until the door closed and her footsteps faded down the hall before I moved.
The note was tucked inside the curve of one of the larger petals, folded smaller than my thumbnail, placed the way only someone who worked with flowers or had been trained to hide things would think to use. I unfolded it carefully against my knee.
Tomorrow. Late morning. Side door of San Cristoforo. She'll come if you can be there. Come alone.
I read it twice. Then a third time.
