Chapter Text
Daughter of the Sun
Izzy hated people.
It did not matter whether they were men, women, or children. In her experience, people always wanted something from her—obedience, gratitude, silence, a smile that said she was settling in just fine. They offered soft voices and reassuring promises at first, telling her she was safe now, that this home would be different, that she could finally relax.
Then the promises broke.
They always did.
The foster system had taught Izzy that kindness could be temporary, as flimsy as the overnight bag she carried from house to house. Adults smiled for social workers, then snapped at her the moment the front door clicked shut. They called her difficult when she asked too many questions, ungrateful when she did not eat food that made her stomach turn, and cold when she stopped crying in front of them. Even other kids had learned how to spot weakness. They whispered behind their hands, hid her things, and looked at her like she was some stray animal that had wandered in from the rain.
So Izzy learned not to trust warm kitchens, tidy bedrooms, or the carefully made-up beds that were never really hers. She learned that a hug could be a performance, that we’re happy to have you could mean until you become inconvenient, and that people rarely stayed as long as they promised.
It was easier to hate them first.
Hate was sharp and familiar. Hate did not ask her to unpack her bag. Hate did not tell her to call someone Mom.
And yet, beneath Izzy’s carefully constructed mask of indifference, there was still a little girl who hoped.
She kept that hope buried deep, tucked behind crossed arms, sharp replies, and the blank, unreadable expression she wore whenever a new caseworker led her up another unfamiliar front walk. She would never admit it aloud—not to the adults with their gentle, practiced voices, and certainly not to herself—but every time she stepped into a new house, a small, aching part of her searched for signs that this one might be different.
Maybe the kitchen would smell like cinnamon and something warm baking in the oven. Maybe there would be a bedroom with walls painted a color she actually liked, a lamp beside the bed, and a drawer left empty just for her things. Maybe someone would ask what she wanted for dinner and truly wait for her answer. Maybe they would not flinch when she went quiet, or sigh when she forgot how to be grateful.
At night, when the unfamiliar house settled around her with soft creaks and the muted hum of appliances, Izzy sometimes imagined what it would feel like to unpack everything. Not just the few clothes and battered belongings shoved into her bag, but all of it—the guarded pieces of herself she kept locked away so no one could throw them back in her face.
She imagined hanging a picture on the wall. Leaving a book on the nightstand without worrying it would be lost in the next move. Letting herself call a place home.
But by morning, she would bury those thoughts again beneath a shrug and a scowl. Hope was dangerous. Hope made it hurt worse when someone decided she was too much trouble to keep.
Still, no matter how hard she tried to smother it, that small, frightened girl remained somewhere inside her—waiting, wishing, and praying that this would finally be the last placement.
But then again No one would ever be able to replace her Nonno. Giovanni Bucci was someone who loved Izzy no matter what. It did not matter to him that Izzy never acted like a normal child. That she didn’t know when to smile or when to laugh. He just But then again, no one could ever replace her Nonno.
Giovanni Bucci loved Izzy without conditions, without deadlines, and without expecting her to turn into some cheerful, easy child just to make the adults around her comfortable. He did not care that she rarely smiled or that laughter seemed to catch in her throat before it could escape. He never scolded her for sitting silently at the edge of a room while the other children shouted and played, nor did he demand that she look people in the eye when she could barely stand to be noticed.
To everyone else, Izzy’s silence was rude. Her guarded expression was disrespectful. Her inability to accept a hug without stiffening was proof that she was difficult.
To Nonno, it was proof that she had survived.
He understood that she had been hurt long before she was old enough to name what had happened to her, much less protect herself from it. Somewhere along the way, people had taught her that affection came with strings, that raised voices meant danger, and that kindness could vanish without warning. Giovanni never asked for the details she could not give. He did not push when her face went pale at a slammed door or when she woke from nightmares with her fists clenched beneath the blankets.
Instead, he made room for her.
His little house smelled of espresso, garlic, and the faint, comforting scent of old books. In the mornings, he would set a small cup of warm milk beside her plate and pretend not to notice when she took it only after he had turned away. He spoke to her in a low, patient voice, sometimes in Italian when the English words felt too sharp around the edges. On difficult days, he sat nearby at the kitchen table, peeling apples in slow curling strips, allowing the quiet to settle between them without trying to fill it.
He never told her she had to call him Nonno.
The first time she did, the word slipped out by accident—small, rough, and nearly swallowed by fear. Giovanni had paused in the doorway, one hand resting against the chipped wooden frame. His eyes had shone, but he had only smiled gently, as though he had been waiting for her all along.
“Si, piccola,” he had said softly. Yes, little one.
And for the first time in longer than Izzy could remember, she had believed that someone might stay.
For four precious years, Giovanni Bucci had been the sun in Izzy’s life. His presence had reached into the dark, frightened corners of her heart and warmed them slowly, patiently, until she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be afraid all the time. In his small house, with its faded curtains, creaking floorboards, and air that always smelled of espresso, garlic, and something simmering on the stove, she had begun to feel safe.
She had started leaving her books on the coffee table instead of keeping them packed in her bag. She had learned which cupboard held the chipped blue mugs and which floorboard outside her bedroom door squeaked beneath Nonno’s slippers each morning. Sometimes, when he hummed old Italian songs while cooking, she even caught herself smiling before she could stop it.
For the first time, she had allowed herself to believe in permanence.
Then Giovanni died.
There was no warning that made sense to Izzy. No chance to brace herself. One day, he had been there—his weathered hands dusted with flour, his soft voice calling her piccola from the kitchen, his warm cardigan smelling faintly of aftershave and coffee. The next, the house was full of strangers speaking in hushed voices, their shoes clicking across the same wooden floors that had once felt like home.
Izzy sat curled into the corner of the faded sofa, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, while adults moved around her as though she were another piece of furniture left behind. Someone had draped a blanket over her shoulders. Someone else had tried to offer her a glass of water. She had not taken either.
All she could see was the empty armchair beside the window.
His armchair.
The one with the worn brown leather cushions and the small indentation where he always sat in the evening, reading the newspaper with his glasses balanced low on his nose. The chair was still there. His slippers were still beneath it. A half-finished crossword rested on the little table beside it, his pen lying across the page exactly where he had left it.
But Nonno was gone.
The sun in Izzy’s life had gone out with him.
For four years, Giovanni had given her warmth, steadiness, and a reason to believe that she was not too broken to be loved. He had taught her that silence could be gentle, that a home could be more than a temporary address, and that she could close her eyes at night without waiting for someone to send her away by morning.
Now the house felt hollow. The comforting scents of coffee and tomato sauce had faded beneath the sharp smell of flowers brought by people who had not known him the way she had. Every corner held a piece of him, and every piece cut into her.
Without warning, Izzy was alone again.
And this time, she knew exactly what she had lost.
That had been four years ago.
Now Izzy was back in the United States, standing in the narrow entryway of yet another foster home with her duffel bag clutched tightly in one hand. The house was too bright, too clean, and smelled sharply of lemon polish and laundry detergent. Framed family photographs covered the hallway walls—smiling faces at birthdays, children in matching holiday pajamas, parents with their arms wrapped around kids who looked like they had never had to wonder where they would sleep next week.
Izzy kept her eyes on the floor.
The foster mother had greeted her with a tight smile and a hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades, guiding her inside as though Izzy might bolt for the door. Her foster father stood near the kitchen entrance with his arms folded, watching her with a careful, assessing expression. Their children hovered farther down the hall, whispering to one another behind their hands.
Then came the rules.
There were many of them, of course. Shoes off at the door. No food outside the kitchen. Bedtime at nine. Ask before using anything that did not belong to her. Keep her room tidy. Do not make trouble.
But the first rule—the one the foster mother delivered in a calm, clipped voice—was the one that settled heaviest in Izzy’s chest.
“No speaking Italian in this house,” she said.
Izzy looked up before she could stop herself.
For a second, she thought she had misunderstood. Italian was not just another language to her. It was the sound of Giovanni humming as he stirred sauce at the stove. It was buongiorno, piccola, spoken softly from her bedroom doorway. It was the word Nonno, the first name she had ever given someone because she wanted them to stay.
It was home.
“I want everyone to understand what is being said,” the woman continued, as though the rule were perfectly reasonable. “English only.”
Izzy’s fingers tightened around the worn strap of her duffel bag until her knuckles ached. She wanted to say that she did speak English. She wanted to explain that Italian was simply the language that came out when she was tired, afraid, angry, or caught off guard. It was the language she dreamed in. The language her heart still reached for whenever the world felt too loud.
But she said nothing.
She had learned long ago that arguing only made adults call her difficult.
So she lowered her gaze, swallowed the familiar words rising in her throat, and gave the smallest nod.
“Sì—” The answer slipped out before she could stop it.
The foster mother’s mouth tightened.
Izzy corrected herself immediately. “Yes.”
But the damage was already done.
As she followed them down the hallway toward the bedroom that was supposed to be hers, she kept every Italian word locked behind her teeth. Each one felt like another thread being pulled loose from the life she had shared with Nonno—his warm kitchen, his weathered hands, the soft cadence of his voice.
By the time the bedroom door clicked shut behind her, Izzy could barely remember what it felt like to speak without fear.
The quiet that followed was immediate and heavy.
For a moment, she stood with her back to the door, one hand still curled around the strap of her duffel bag. The room was small and unfamiliar, washed in pale afternoon light that slipped through thin white curtains and painted long bars across the beige carpet. Everything looked staged for her arrival: the neatly made twin bed with its stiff floral quilt, the empty dresser, the plastic laundry basket tucked beside the closet, and a framed print of a smiling yellow sun nailed crookedly above the desk.
It did not feel like a bedroom.
It felt like a room waiting to decide whether it would keep her.
It was just Izzy again.
Or almost just Izzy.
She still had Leone.
The stuffed lion had once been a bright, golden yellow, though years of being dragged through airports, foster homes, car rides, and sleepless nights had faded his fur to the color of old honey. His mane was flattened on one side, his tail was missing its little tuft, and one of his button eyes sat slightly lower than the other because Izzy had sewn it back on herself with clumsy, uneven stitches.
Nonno had given Leone to her on her first birthday in his care. Izzy could still picture him holding the lion out to her with a shy little smile, his weathered hands gentle around the toy’s round body.
“Per la mia leonessa,” he had said. For my little lioness.
At the time, she had not understood why he called her that. She had been small, silent, and afraid of nearly everything. But Giovanni had insisted that lions did not have to roar all the time to be brave.
Now, Leone was the last piece of Nonno she had left.
Izzy forced herself to move.
She set the duffel bag on the bed and unzipped it slowly, careful not to make too much noise. She had learned that people noticed noise. Noise made adults sigh, call out warnings from other rooms, or look at her as if she had done something wrong simply by taking up space.
Her belongings fit into the room quickly.
Two pairs of jeans went into the bottom dresser drawer, folded along their worn creases. A few faded shirts were placed in the drawer above them: a soft gray one with a tiny hole near the hem, a blue long-sleeved shirt that had once belonged to another foster child, and the oversized green sweater she had worn so many times the sleeves had stretched over her knuckles. She hung her coat in the closet, though she hesitated before letting it go, as if the thin fabric might be the only thing anchoring her to the life she had left behind.
Her toothbrush, battered hairbrush, and a small bottle of shampoo went neatly into the top drawer of the desk. She lined up three worn books on the shelf above it—one in English, two in Italian—then immediately moved the Italian books behind the English one, where they could not be seen from the doorway.
The rule echoed in her mind.
No speaking Italian in this house.
They had not said she could not read it.
Still, hiding the books felt like hiding Nonno.
At the bottom of the duffel bag lay a small, folded handkerchief. Its edges were frayed, and it still carried the faintest trace of old coffee and cedar soap if she held it close enough. Izzy unfolded it carefully. Inside was a faded photograph of Giovanni standing in his kitchen, flour dusting the front of his dark sweater, one hand lifted as if he had been caught halfway through explaining something important.
His smile in the photograph was soft and crooked.
Her throat tightened.
Izzy tucked the picture beneath the mattress instead of placing it on the desk. People had a way of asking questions about things they did not understand. People had a way of taking what mattered and calling it a mistake, clutter, or something she needed to let go of.
When the duffel was empty, it looked smaller than it had before—flat and shapeless on the bed, like it had already begun waiting for the next move.
There was nothing else left to do.
Izzy lowered herself to the middle of the carpet, crossing her legs beneath her. The floor was scratchy through the thin fabric of her jeans, and the unfamiliar house murmured around her: pipes groaning in the walls, a television murmuring somewhere downstairs, the sudden burst of laughter from children who did not sound as though they had to earn the right to be happy.
She pulled Leone tightly against her chest.
His worn mane brushed beneath her chin as she pressed her face into the soft curve of his head. He smelled faintly of dust, laundry soap, and the old lavender sachet Nonno had once kept in the drawer beside his bed. Izzy curled around him as though she could shield him from the whole house—and as though he could somehow shield her in return.
“Mi manca,” she whispered into his fur before she could stop herself.
I miss him.
The words were so quiet that no one outside the room could possibly have heard them. Even so, Izzy’s entire body went still.
Her eyes flicked toward the closed door.
No footsteps came. No voice called out to correct her. The house remained quiet.
Slowly, carefully, she let out the breath she had been holding.
Then she closed her eyes, held Leone even closer, and imagined Nonno’s kitchen instead: the warm glow of the stove, the bubbling red sauce, the clink of a spoon against a pot, and Giovanni’s low voice telling her that she was safe.
For now, memory was the closest thing she had to home.
That fragile moment shattered when Izzy’s bedroom door opened without a knock.
The hinges gave a soft, complaining creak, but the sound still cut through the room like a snapped thread. Izzy’s head jerked up. Her arms tightened instinctively around Leone, pressing the worn stuffed lion against her chest as though she could hide him beneath her ribs.
A girl stood in the doorway.
She looked about fourteen or fifteen—older than Izzy by enough years to make the difference feel dangerous. Dark hair spilled over one shoulder in loose, uneven waves, and she wore an oversized black hoodie with the sleeves shoved carelessly to her elbows. A pair of scuffed sneakers hung from one hand, their laces dragging across the floor. Her expression was neither welcoming nor curious.
It was bored.
Almost amused.
She leaned against the doorframe as though the bedroom belonged to her and Izzy was only borrowing it. Her eyes moved slowly over the room, taking in the empty dresser drawers, the thin stack of clothes, the flattened duffel bag on the bed, and finally Leone clutched in Izzy’s arms.
Her mouth twitched.
Izzy went still.
The old instinct rose in her before she could stop it—the one that told her to make herself smaller, quieter, harder to notice. Her fingers curled into Leone’s matted fur, and she lowered her gaze just enough to watch the girl from beneath her lashes.
She did not know this girl’s name. She did not know whether she was another foster kid or the family’s daughter, whether she had been there for years or only a few weeks.
But Izzy knew that look.
It was the same look she had seen in children who stole the good snacks and blamed someone else. In girls who smiled sweetly in front of adults and whispered cruel things once their backs were turned. A measuring look. A searching look. The kind that seemed to ask: What do you care about most, and how quickly could I use it against you?
The girl’s gaze lingered on Leone for one heartbeat too long.
Izzy’s stomach knotted.
No one touched Leone.
No one.
She shifted backward on the carpet until her shoulder met the side of the bed, putting herself between the girl and the small pile of belongings she had only just unpacked. The movement was slight, but the girl noticed. Of course she did.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Izzy’s pulse began to pound in her ears.
Outside the room, the house continued as though nothing had changed. The television murmured downstairs. A cabinet door shut somewhere near the kitchen. Someone laughed, loud and careless.
But inside the bedroom, the air felt different—thin and tight, full of the same terrible certainty Izzy had carried from home to home.
This place was not safe.
And neither was the girl standing in her doorway.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” the girl asked, her voice edged with a sneer.
The question landed like an accusation.
Izzy’s breath caught in her throat. She looked from the girl’s narrowed eyes to the open door behind her, then down at the worn lion pressed against her ribs. For a moment, she could not move. Every instinct inside her told her to stay quiet, to make herself small, to wait until the girl lost interest and went away.
But this was what Nonno had taught her.
When fear tried to curl her shoulders inward, Giovanni would gently straighten her posture. When she wanted to hide behind him, he would give her a small smile and remind her that kindness did not make her weak.
Educazione, piccola, he used to say. Manners, little one.
So Izzy forced herself to move.
Slowly, she pushed herself up from the carpet, careful not to let the girl see how badly her knees shook. Leone stayed tucked beneath her left arm, his faded golden fur pressed securely against her side. She would not set him down. Not with this girl standing in the doorway, not when those sharp eyes kept drifting back to him.
Izzy smoothed her palm against the front of her shirt, then held out her right hand.
The gesture felt too formal in the cramped bedroom, too delicate for the hostility hanging in the air between them. Still, she kept her hand extended, just as Nonno had taught her when meeting someone new.
“My name is Isabella Bucci,” Izzy said.
Her English came slowly, each word shaped with careful concentration. The accent she could not hide softened the edges of her voice, and she stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar rhythm of the sentence. Her cheeks warmed as she glanced down at their hands—hers offered, the other girl’s still at her side.
“But please…” Izzy swallowed, then tried again. “Please call me Izzy.”
For one long moment, no one moved.
Her hand remained suspended between them, trembling only faintly.
The girl did not reach for it.
Izzy had known she probably would not. People rarely did when they had already decided what they thought of her. Even so, the rejection tightened something painful in her chest.
She kept her face still. Nonno had taught her manners, but the foster system had taught her how to hide disappointment.
Leone’s button eye caught the thin afternoon light as Izzy tucked him closer against her side, waiting to see what the girl would do next.
“I don’t care who you are,” the girl snapped. “Just get out of my room.”
Before Izzy could answer, the girl—Andy—stormed into the room and began throwing Izzy’s things onto the floor. A shirt landed in a crumpled heap beside the bed. Her hairbrush skidded beneath the dresser. One of her books struck the carpet facedown, its pages bending at the corner.
Izzy did not move at first.
Then the last warm piece of hope inside her seemed to turn hard and cold.
She knelt on the floor and began gathering her belongings without a word. Her hands trembled as she folded each shirt and placed it back inside her duffel bag. She picked up her books carefully, checking their covers before sliding them into the bag. All the while, she muttered in Italian beneath her breath, the words low and sharp enough that only Leone could hear them.
“Che ragazza insopportabile,” she whispered. What an unbearable girl.
“Non è giusto.” It isn’t fair.
The bedroom door opened again.
“Andy, you’re going to have to share your room with Annabella here,” Izzy’s foster mother said, sounding impatient. She had already forgotten Izzy’s name.
Izzy’s fingers paused on the zipper of her duffel bag.
Annabella.
Not Isabella. Not Izzy.
Just another name carelessly assigned to her by someone who had barely looked at her.
“No,” Andy said, stomping her foot hard enough to rattle the loose items on the desk. “I’m not sharing my room with anyone.”
Izzy kept her head down.
Heat rose behind her eyes, but she refused to let the tears fall. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, swallowing every angry word she wanted to spit at the girl, at the woman in the doorway, at the entire house that had already made it clear she did not belong.
Her grip tightened around the duffel bag’s zipper.
She wanted to curse them all in Italian—loudly, viciously, with every word Nonno would have told her never to use.
Instead, she said nothing.
She had learned that silence was safer.
“Too bad,” Izzy’s foster mother said, her voice clipped and merciless. “You’re going to have to.”
Andy’s mouth opened, her face already twisting around another angry protest, but the woman’s hand moved before she could speak.
The slap cracked through the bedroom.
It was a small sound, really—one sharp strike of skin against skin—but it seemed to fill every corner of the room. Andy’s head snapped to the side. Dark hair fell across her face, and a furious red mark spread slowly over her cheekbone. For the first time since Izzy had seen her in the doorway, the older girl’s expression broke. Her confidence faltered beneath a flash of shock and humiliation.
Izzy recoiled as though the blow had landed on her.
Her back struck the bedframe. Leone was crushed against her chest, his faded fur caught beneath Izzy’s shaking fingers. Her heart began to hammer so hard it hurt. The sharp sound of the slap pulled old memories to the surface—raised voices beyond thin walls, doors slamming, adults losing patience when she did not understand a rule quickly enough.
Her breath shortened.
If this woman could hit Andy—her own daughter, the girl whose photographs filled the hallway—what would she do to Izzy?
Izzy had no place in those smiling frames.
She was not family. She was a stranger with a duffel bag, a file, and just enough belongings to carry away in a hurry. She was temporary. Replaceable.
“Unpack your things, Annabella,” the foster mother ordered.
The name struck Izzy with a strange, hollow force.
“Annabella” was not hers. It sounded pretty and polished, like the names printed on the little brass plaques outside bedrooms in the houses she had passed through. Her name was Isabella Bucci. Izzy was the version of it Nonno had made gentle. The name he had spoken in the mornings, warm with sleep and affection. The name he had called out from the kitchen whenever dinner was ready.
“And no Italian,” the woman added, turning toward the door. “You’re in America now.”
Izzy watched her walk away.
The woman spoke as if America could erase a language. As if crossing an ocean had stripped Italian from Izzy’s tongue, from her memories, from the quiet place inside her where Nonno still existed.
Her fingers tightened around Leone.
Fear told her to keep quiet. It told her to nod, unpack her things, and disappear into the corner of the room. That was what had kept her safe before.
But the wrong name scraped at something raw inside her.
“My name is Izzy,” she said.
Her English came out carefully, each word slow and imperfect. She swallowed, then forced herself to continue. “Not Annabella. Izzy is short… for Isabella.”
The foster mother stopped in the doorway.
For one brief, impossible moment, hope stirred in Izzy’s chest. Maybe the woman had not understood. Maybe she would turn around and say she was sorry. Maybe this was only a mistake.
Then the woman looked back.
There was no apology in her face.
She crossed the room in three quick steps.
Izzy did not have time to raise her hands.
The slap came hard across her cheek.
Pain flared bright and hot. Her head snapped to the side, and for a second the room tilted beneath her feet. Leone slipped from her grasp, his soft body landing on the carpet with a muted thump. Izzy reached for him immediately, gathering him back against her ribs as though she had failed to protect him.
Her cheek throbbed beneath her palm.
She could feel heat spreading beneath her skin. Her ears rang so loudly that the next words seemed far away at first.
“I don’t care what your name is,” the foster mother said.
Izzy stared at the faded carpet.
“You’re just another paycheck to me,” the woman continued, her tone flat and practical, as if she were talking about a bill that had arrived in the mail. “Just like every other child living in this house.”
The words sank in slowly.
Not a girl.
Not Isabella.
Not Izzy.
A paycheck.
Something purchased. Something tolerated. Something that could be discarded when it became inconvenient.
For a moment, Izzy’s eyes burned. Tears gathered, blurring the ugly floral pattern of the quilt on the bed. Her throat tightened around a sob, but she swallowed it down. She had cried in other homes. She had begged adults not to send her away. She had learned what people did when they saw how badly she wanted to be wanted.
They used it.
So Izzy lifted one trembling hand to her cheek and rubbed gently at the place that hurt. Her fingers brushed the faint, raised ridges of old scars near her jaw—marks she had never asked anyone about and no one had ever explained to her.
Then she did what she had always done.
She put on the mask.
The grief in her eyes dulled first. Her mouth settled into a straight, unreadable line. Her shoulders stopped shaking. She stood a little straighter, Leone held close enough to hide the frantic beat of her heart.
She did not glare. She did not plead. She did not speak Italian, English, or any language at all.
She simply looked down.
Behind that blank expression, every soft part of her retreated behind locked doors. The little girl who had imagined a warm kitchen and an empty drawer just for her belongings disappeared. The girl who had hoped, however quietly, that this might be the last place she had to live, folded herself away where nobody could reach her.
When the foster mother finally turned and left the room, Izzy did not watch her go.
She already knew the truth.
This was not a home.
It was just another place she would have to survive.