Below The Surface

Prologue - Before the Fall

The sound came first.

Even before Valentina Renaldi opened her eyes, even before the August sunlight painted her rose-patterned bedspread in shades of gold, even before she remembered it was Sunday and Papa didn't have to work—she heard it.

The Mediterranean.

Through her bedroom window, left open to catch the night breeze, came the eternal song of the Ligurian Sea: waves rolling against the rocky shore of Monterosso al Mare, the crash and sigh, crash and sigh, a rhythm as constant as her own heartbeat. Beneath it, the cry of gulls. The distant clang of fishing boats in the harbor. The whisper of wind through the lemon trees that lined the steep hillsides above their town, carrying the sharp-sweet scent of citrus and salt air.

Valentina smiled before she even opened her eyes.

Home.

She was eight years old. She had twelve hours left before that word would stop meaning what it meant now.

When she finally blinked awake, her room glowed with the particular quality of light that belonged only to the Italian Riviera in summer—golden and warm, filtering through sheer curtains that danced in the sea breeze. Her walls were painted the softest shade of lavender, adorned with her own watercolor paintings of flowers: roses, peonies, forget-me-nots in careful, childish strokes. Her bedspread—white cotton scattered with delicate pink rosebuds—was tangled around her legs. On her nightstand sat a small vase of wildflowers her papa had picked during their last walk in the hills: purple statice, yellow broom, white sweet alyssum.

Everything in Valentina's room was soft, pretty, gentle. Just like her.

At least, that's what the children at school said. Right before they pushed her in the hallway.

But she wouldn't think about that now. Not on Sunday. Not when she could hear Mama humming in the kitchen and smell what could only be focaccia.

She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet finding the cool terracotta tiles—the same rust-orange tiles that covered every floor in their apartment, that covered half the floors in Monterosso, ancient and beautiful and perfectly imperfect. She padded toward the kitchen, following the scent: rosemary and olive oil, salt and yeast, the smell of Sunday mornings and safety and everything good.

Their apartment was small, carved into the hillside like most buildings in Monterosso, with thick stone walls that kept the summer heat at bay and windows that framed the sea like paintings. It sat in the old town—the centro storico—where buildings in shades of ochre, terracotta, and sun-faded pink climbed the steep streets, where laundry hung between balconies like colorful flags, where the smell of basil and tomatoes drifted from every open window.

Below their building, the narrow Via Roma wound down to the beach. Above them, vineyards terraced the hillside, ancient and patient. And everywhere—everywhere—the sea whispered its constant song.

This was Monterosso: the largest of the five Cinque Terre villages, but still small enough that everyone knew everyone. Small enough that Signora Benedetti downstairs knew how Valentina liked her morning brioche. Small enough that Valentina could walk to the beach alone and her parents didn't worry.

Small enough that there was nowhere to hide from the boy who'd made this year of school a nightmare.

But again—not on Sunday.

"Tesoro mio!" Her father's voice pulled her from her thoughts, rich and warm as honey. "Vieni qui!" (My treasure! Come here!)

Valentina rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped, momentarily dazzled.