Chapter 3 - Shadows in the North End
The rain had cleared by mid-afternoon, leaving the narrow, cobblestone streets of the North End slick and reflecting the amber glow of old streetlamps.
Dante drove. Or rather, Dante attempted to drive Dante’s matte-black armored Mercedes-Maybach while trapped inside a body that required him to adjust the seat forward by six inches and prop a pillow behind his lower back just to reach the pedals.
In the passenger seat, Elena sat with her massive arms crossed over Dante's chest, staring out the window with an expression of grim fascination as pedestrians instinctively stepped off the sidewalk whenever the vehicle rolled past.
"Stop staring at people," Dante muttered, gripping the steering wheel with Elena's slender hands.
"I'm not staring," Elena’s deep voice rumbled from the passenger seat. "I'm just enjoying the fact that for the first time in my life, a delivery truck didn't cut me off at the intersection."
"That's because the driver saw my face in the rearview mirror and assumed I’d have his kneecaps removed by dawn."
"A perk," Elena noted dryly. "Though your suspension is entirely too stiff. Feels like riding a horse with arthritis."
Dante parked illegally across from Rossi & Sons Antiquities, a narrow, dust-choked shop wedged between two bustling Italian bakeries that smelled powerfully of espresso and sfogliatelle. A brass bell chimed above the door as they stepped inside, the heavy scent of old parchment, cedar, and centuries of accumulated dust washing over them.
Behind the counter sat an elderly man with a thick white mustache and coke-bottle glasses, squinting over a jeweler's loupe at a silver pocket watch.
"We're closed," the old man rasped without looking up. "Come back Tuesday."
Dante stepped forward, his heart hammering against Elena's ribs. He opened his mouth to issue one of his standard, icy commands, but caught himself just in time. If he used Dante's terrifying baritone while wearing a designer silk blouse, the old man would call an ambulance or reach for a shotgun.
Instead, Dante took a breath, letting Elena's softer, more melodic voice carry the words.
"Signor Rossi," Dante said, stepping into the ring of yellow light cast by the desk lamp. "I don't think you want us to leave."
The old man looked up. His milky blue eyes scanned Elena's delicate features, then drifted slightly upward before snapping down to the heavy, silver-framed pocket mirror Dante was holding out in his right hand.
Signor Rossi dropped his loupe. It clattered against the glass counter.
"The Venetian looking glass," Rossi whispered, his hands trembling as he stood up, gripping the edge of the counter for support. He looked from Elena to Dante—standing tall and menacing in the doorway with his massive arms crossed—and let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "Ah. So the old bitch's curse finally found someone stubborn enough to trigger it."
Dante’s breath caught. He stepped closer, his slender heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. "What curse? My grandmother bought that mirror in 1984. What did she put into it?"
Rossi leaned over the counter, peering closely into Elena's eyes. "Emilia Moretti didn't buy that mirror to look at her hair, signorina. She bought it from a Venetian glassmaker who spent forty years trying to trap his unfaithful husband inside his own kitchen sink. It doesn't kill you. It corrects you."
"Corrects us?" Elena's deep, baritone voice boomed from Dante's massive chest, startling a pigeon outside the window. "How is swapping bodies a correction?"
"It’s not a swap," Rossi corrected, tapping a yellowed finger against the glass counter. "It’s a reflection. You spent seven years living under the same roof, sharing the same bed, looking at each other like strangers across a boardroom table. The glass doesn't care about your money, your contracts, or your lawyers. It gives you the one thing you refused to give each other: total, undeniable perspective."
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Dante stared at the old man, a cold chill running down Elena's spine. "How do we break it?"
Rossi smiled, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth. "You don't. Not until the lesson is finished. And according to the old rules, the mirror only releases its prisoners when both souls look into the glass together... and choose to stay."
