Page 21 of Her Brutal First Love

You are to face your problems head on and not hide or run away.

You must fight with the truth, even if it is only your heart - and not your life - at stake.

Sarica's phone buzzed at that moment, and a grimace touched her lips when she saw it was another video message, this time from Maryse. Since she was sure it would have the same browbeating content as Dauphin's—-

Never mind.

She would just listen to it later.

Like, maybe 5,000 years later.

She had better things to do with her time, such as moping and moping and...oh, coffee!

It was the scent that distracted her first, which eventually drew her to a boutique café tucked between a bridal dress shop and a mom-and-pop business selling handmade nougats. Its covered terrace offered a picturesque view of Kivr's most exclusive shopping district while delicate brass ceiling fans spun out a subtle beat that was almost hypnotic.

While searching for a vacant table, a movement caught her eye, and Sarica wondered if she had started to hallucinate.

She blinked several times, but the illusion didn't go away.

It really was her, Sarica realized in shock.

Her dark hair was now corn wheat gold. Her near-black eyes were now blue. Her lightly tanned skin was now like ivory. But despite all of these superficial differences, Sarica knew she could not be mistaken.

The woman in front of her could only be Justina Ruiz, whose disappearance almost seven years ago had many in the world accusing Giancarlo of murder.

Sarica managed to find a vacant seat three tables behind the other woman.Missing: Boston's Dancing Queenwas the title of the documentary about the unsolved mystery of Justina's disappearance. While the sleeper hit had been smart enough not to make any direct accusations against Giancarlo, the leading questions it asked were enough to turn the public into a lynch mob.

La Stregaand the rest of the Marchettis had never made any comment about the show, and since Sarica was hisgrandmother's ward, she was forced to play nice and feign ignorance when asked about the documentary.

But Sarica in front of her laptop was a completely different matter, and she could still remember the countless nights she had spent in those years, creating multiple anonymous accounts just so she could demolish every wild theory that trolls had posted about Justina and Giancarlo online.

Sarica's hands trembled as she studied the other woman over the lid of her coffee cup. Justina looked really,reallygood for someone the whole world believed to be assaulted, raped, and murdered. The documentary portrayed her as a country girl whose dreams of a bright future were destroyed by one of New England's less honorablefamiglie.

In those days, Justina's wardrobe consisted mostly of plaid shirts and denims. But the woman in front of her now looked posh and self-assured, her dress worth well over several thousand dollars, and her bag twice as much.

Was it coincidence that Justina was in the same country as the one Giancarlo was in?

No.

She felt stupid even for asking such a thing. Coincidences ceased to exist the moment she believed God existed. And if that was the case, then—-

Oh no.

There was no longer any point figuring out how to introduce herself to the other woman—-

"Hello, Sarica. Would you like to join me for coffee?"

—-since Justina had turned around in her chair to look straight at her with a smile.

"Hello, and yes, I would absolutely love to." Sarica greeted the other woman back without missing a beat...even as she mentally kicked herself in the head for forgetting every lesson about stealth. Her mind raced as she joined Justina at the other table, and she bit back a sigh of relief when the other woman asked for menus.

Oh, good.

Studying the menu gave Sarica a chance to regain her composure. To think of the questions she could ask of Justina. To figure out the real deal between the other woman and—-

"The menu is hardly complex enough to warrant such intense study."

Sarica lowered her menu and managed a smile despite her skin prickling at Justina's amused drawl.

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