Nel Nome dell’Arancia : E l’essenza dell’inganno
(In the name of the orange : And the Essence of Deceit)
The night felt heavy, as Sirah continued browsing the pages of Mylene’s diary. The deeper he ventured, the more spiritually tethered to her he became. Her words were poetic, yet haunting—like daggers aimed directly at the heart.
As he kept reading, each line felt like an invocation bleeding from the pages, summoning desires he had never known—raging from anger to sorrow, all flowing through the canal of immeasurable lust. It was as if his entire body were burning in hot wax.
The ink shimmered crimson under the candlelight, as if the parchment was still breathing.
L’amore che non ti uccide non è amore.
(Love that doesn’t kill you is not love.)
That line struck a deep chord in Sirah. He loved his wife, Ophelia—but she never made him feel this way: animalistic, passionate, immortal. Ophelia was incapable of making him feel like a real man. And that was a problem.
Guilt crept in. There was no affair, no betrayal in action—but the truth sat plainly before him. He had chosen Ophelia for her simplicity, not because she made him feel alive.
Sirah’s mind began to wander. It wasn’t that he understood Mylene now. No—he felt her. She was the huntress of remembrance. His imagination betrayed him—he swore he could feel her fingers stroking the nape of his neck, running through his silky, black curls, leaving behind the scent of southern peach. A perfume now woven into his memory and lungs.
She wasn’t gone. She was more present than ever—as if Caravaggio himself had painted her, posed like Venus.
Picturesque and alluring. She was watching him. Waiting. At least, that’s how Sirah imagined her.
Another page revealed a torn letter, unsigned—but unmistakably hers. It spoke of a man who loved her so deeply it drove him to madness—worse than when Paganini lost his soul to the devil. A man who betrayed her, who tried to lock her away—again and again—inside a crystal dome in his palace, just to keep her forever at his side.
Il principe della corona arancione.
(The Prince of the Orange Crown.)
Sirah’s mind spiraled. Based on the time period and the symbolism, it could only be one man: Vittorio Medicini, the same prince who warred with the Borgias, whose fleeting liaison with Lucrezia Borgia had failed—her bloodline stained by illegitimacy.
Il suo amore è confusione. Mi ama, poi mi odia, poi cerca di rinchiudermi come uno sporco segreto in un vetro dorato.
(His love is confusion. He loves me, then he hates me, then he tries to lock me away like a dirty secret in golden glass.)
That passage ignited Sirah’s emotional cocktail. He could no longer separate his thoughts.
In that moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to kill Vittorio—or become him.
Sirah took a deep breath before closing the diary. The ache behind the open wound still pulsated. His anger had not diminished—if anything, it had grown. Now he wanted to know Frankie’s true intentions with the diary. Why did he need it?
He forced himself up from the small table in his room and moved to the writing desk beside the divan. It was time to write to that bastard and inform him the diary had been obtained. Sirah wrestled with the idea of surrendering such a sacred item to someone as sleazy as Frankie.
He opened the drawer, pulled out a Western Union form the innkeeper had left, lit the candle for better light, and stared at the blank page—half-hoping the ink would fill itself in. His trembling hand hovered midair, holding the quill.
He dipped the pen in ink, took another breath, and began to write:
TELEGRAM
April 7, 1926
TO: F.G. Le Cour Noir – New Orleans
VIA WESTERN UNION
RETRIEVED. RETURNING. SEE YOU SOON. – S.C.
As soon as he finished, his stomach twisted with nausea. Not just from what he had read… but from what he had felt. Of course, he avoided any mention of that. He didn’t tell Frankie how much of himself he’d given to her. He felt guilt for his wife—but also more alive than he ever had before.
Frankie didn’t need to know that Mylene had already taken his soul… and begun to haunt him, too.
The fog in Cornwall was thick, as if it knew what had happened the night before and was reluctant to let him go. Sirah boarded the early train with the diary wrapped in silk and sorrow. The wind outside howled violently, like a woman screaming, please don’t go. Every shadow in the corridor felt like her hair trailing behind him.
After the train, he boarded a steamboat in Plymouth bound for America.
It took fourteen days to reach New Orleans.
When he arrived at his antique shop, he didn’t walk through the main door—he didn’t want to see his wife. It felt like he was crossing a threshold into another realm. The air inside was dense, still scented with clove, orange, and cinnamon—but now drenched in betrayal and prophecy.
Frankie was waiting. Leaning against the counter, cigar in hand, his dark navy-blue eyes burned with fury.
Sirah didn’t flinch. He handed over the silk-wrapped diary like a man passing on a curse from the Hauntress of Remembrance.
“The diary is intact and unopened,” he said.
But something in his voice made Frankie suspicious—it was too flat. Too mechanical. The lie cracked open. Frankie knew Sirah had at least opened the first page. He sniffed the air, and there it was: that same exhilarating trail of scent—orange, clove, cinnamon. The smell clung to Sirah’s collar like a vicious bite from a love-struck siren. A woman he had not kissed, but desperately wanted to.
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. Then he growled:
“You smell like her.”
Sirah didn’t reply. He simply turned and climbed the stairs, locking the door behind him.
Inside the gold coffin, Mylene remained asleep.
But she sensed them.
She owned them both.
Her astral projection rose to see what was unfolding… and smiled.
She possessed them—without even opening her eyes.
🕯️ 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.
📋 Copy Chapter Link
📩 Send to a Friend
🧛 Join the Legend
#VelvetMirror #NirvanaNoir #MyleneLives
Leave a Reply