Chapter 6

Il Diario della Volpe d’Oro _The Journal That Shouldn’t Exist

Frankie returned to Le Coeur Noir, lost in his own thoughts.
He could not stop thinking about what he felt in that shop—the lingering scent of cloves, cinnamon, and oranges clinging to his neck like the soft whisper of the night that two lovers decide to elope and fuse into one.
Ah, l’Eterno Innamorato!

He felt her presence as if she was there.
And that kiss… that wasn’t a kiss, but the cruel joke the wind had played on him.

This evoked a lontana memoria, buried deep within his subconscious from when he was a piccolo bambino, pestering his nonna for more tales.
A very specific Neapolitan tale about a woman cursed into eternal slumber, embroidered in gold, waiting for a man with the spirito affumicato, la fiamma di sangue, and guilt in his soul.
A woman so dangerous, even death tried to erase her.

The Vixen in the Gold Coffin—with crimson lips and long black locks.

Frankie wasn’t a tight-necked scholar. He didn’t do superstition; he saw it as beneath him.
La gente emozionale were the only ones who believed in that hokum.

But obsession?
That he understood very well—especially when laced in una passione animale.

His obsession drove him to look far and wide, even making calls into the black markets, in contraband, whispering to the wrong curators—until he bought himself the right ones.

Then what he was looking for surfaced:
Il Diario della Volpe d’Oro, obtained during the fall of the Medici family—after the death of Gian Gastone de’ Medici, without a male heir to succeed her in 1737, and the passing of Anna Maria Luisa in 1743.

He embarked on a trip to West England—Cornwall, to be exact—as he crossed the entire Atlantic Ocean for that sensation that had sent electric shocks down his spine.

At the crack of dawn, he took a train to New York City, then boarded a transatlantic ship bound for Plymouth. From there, a private car would take him deep into Cornwall.

He was on a mission.
He would get his hands on that journal.

Once aboard the ship, he felt melancholy settle in. The stench of whisky, wet wood, and cheap cigars filled the air. He was uncomfortable—he always traveled in luxury—but this was worth it.

This was for her.

He crossed the ocean like a possessed man in heat, barely sleeping, angrily stretching his aching, cramped body—yet the scent of oranges, clove, and cinnamon still lingered in his lungs.
He kept to himself, avoided conversations, refusing to let anyone dilute the phantom warmth she had left behind.

He wanted to preserve it.
Her presence. Her allure.
The memory of those lips grazing the nape of his neck…
The phantom weight of her chest pressed against his back.

By the time the ship docked in Plymouth, il fuoco della passione was more ardent than ever.

He went straight to the coast—
no detours, no distractions, no stops for his usual nightcap at the pub.

He made it to Cornwall in one piece. The air was dense, cold, and foggy—so thick he could barely feel his own hands or see his own feet. The smell of old things reminded him of home.

The locals had long since stopped speaking of the burned estate beyond the cliffs.
“It’s bad luck,” they muttered.
Cursed.

But Frankie didn’t believe in curses.
He believed in anger. Passion. Ambition.
He believed in what a man could take—with enough force and resources.

He wandered through the fog until he reached it—
a small antique library, long since turned into an occult museum.
A forgotten vault beneath an old church, now repurposed into a room full of relics too frightening for most to touch.

And there it was—
sealed in glass, labeled in Latin… il Diario della Volpe d’Oro.

Bounded in old black leather ,stitched in red and gold threats, its pages thick like skin and pages coated in gold dust. The kind of book that did not just survived history, it rewrote it.

Behind the glass the following inscriptions in latined burned slightly across the corners of whatever fire hadn’t destroyed it centuries ago/

“Ad ignem in corde,adpeccatum in anima-

Lege,sed scias,coniunrus eris in aetenum” (“ To the Fire in the heart, to the sin of the soul-Read, but know you will be found forever).

Frankie stared at it with an inquisitive expression that felt as it would penetrate the glass ,his jaw cleanched, his hands tiwched, he was so close to get what he wanted that he could taste it. The velvet,the ghost of her beneath the ink.

But it wasn’t for sale , it wasn’t available for loan ,it wasn’t even supposed to be found .

He tried everything to get his hands on it, from bribes to favors ,to resort to violent outburst swearing off vendetttas left and right. Nothing worked.

It cannot be shipped to the United States the curator warned with a clipped British accent that was hard to comprehend.

It’s classified under restricted gothic relics post medici ceremonial, you’d need ecclasstical clearance and an entire board review?

Translation? Impossible

But for Frankie nothing was impossible. He saw it as a challenge to fulfill it.Especially now that she was involved. He needed to have her.

He walked out of the archive ,coat collar up clearly upset. He went outside to clear his head before he lost his temper and made the clerk eat printed words. As the fog swallowed on the cold streets on Cornwall ,he reached in his pockets to take out a silver cigarette container and his lighter.

As he lit his cigarrete with trembling hands ,before his anger consumed him he muttered to himself. Fine if I cannot take it , I will send someone who can.

Bound in old black leather, stitched in red and gold threads, its pages thick like skin and coated in gold dust—
the kind of book that didn’t just survive history, it rewrote it.

Behind the glass, the following inscription in Latin was burned slightly across the corners from whatever fire hadn’t destroyed it centuries ago:

“Ad ignem in corde, ad peccatum in anima—
Lege, sed scias: coniunctus eris in aeternum.”

(“To the fire in the heart, to the sin in the soul—read, but know: you will be bound forever.”)

Frankie stared at it with an inquisitive expression that looked as if it could shatter the glass.
His jaw clenched. His hands twitched.
He was so close to getting what he wanted, he could taste it—
the velvet,
the ghost of her beneath the ink.

But it wasn’t for sale.
It wasn’t available for loan.
It wasn’t even supposed to be found.

He tried everything—bribes, favors, even resorting to violent outbursts, swearing off vendettas left and right.
Nothing worked.

“It cannot be shipped to the United States,”
the curator warned with a clipped British accent that was hard to comprehend.
“It’s classified under restricted Gothic relics—post-Medici ceremonial. You’d need ecclesiastical clearance and an entire board review.”

Translation?
Impossible.

But for Frankie? Nothing was impossible.
He saw it as a challenge to be fulfilled.
Especially now that she was involved.

He needed to have her.

He walked out of the archive, coat collar up, clearly upset.
He stepped outside to clear his head before his temper got the better of him and made the clerk eat his printed words.

As the fog swallowed the cold streets of Cornwall, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case and lighter.

He lit his cigarette with trembling hands, his rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Before it could consume him, he muttered:

“Fine. If I cannot take it…
I’ll send someone who can.”

🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.

If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.

Mylene remembers the ones who speak her name.

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