Forgotten memories

Another Pierce

"I still don't think this is a good idea," Christine muttered as we made our way down Mulberry Street toward Little Italy. Her tone was a mix of nerves and annoyance, like she'd been dragged into something she definitely didn't sign up for.

She looked... well, normal for once. No bright orange Camp Half-Blood tee, no running shorts, no celestial bronze dagger strapped to her hip. Just a pair of jeans, an oversized hoodie, and sneakers. Casual. Mortal casual. It was late August, the kind of evening where the air carried a faint chill, so the hoodie made sense. I'd gone for something similar—jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a light jacket. Trying not to scream hey look, I'm a demigod who attracts trouble everywhere I go.

"Relax," I told her, even though I wasn't entirely convinced myself. "If it's a monster or one of Kronos's people, we just..." I mimed pulling back a bowstring and made a dramatic fwoosh sound as I let my imaginary arrow fly. Nailed it.

Christine rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might actually pop out. "Why did you want me to tag along for this, anyway?" she asked as we closed in on the restaurant—the San Gennaro, according to the glowing red sign above the door.

I shrugged, trying to look casual even though the truth sounded way more sentimental than I wanted to admit. "If someone actually knows something about my dad's family... I figured it should be you."

Her cheeks flushed pink. She quickly looked away, pretending to study the restaurant's exterior like it was suddenly fascinating.

By the time we walked in, it was already about fifteen minutes past four. Not exactly punctual. Honestly, I doubted this "C.H. Pierce" person would've waited that long. I mean, I wouldn't have.

The place was... wow. Old-school Italian vibes everywhere—warm lighting, walls covered in vintage posters, and, I kid you not, an actual bright orange Vespa mounted over a corner booth. Authentic enough that even the smell—garlic, basil, fresh bread—made my stomach growl.

We stopped at a little podium that had a neat brass plaque reading: Please Wait to Be Seated. So we waited.

A young waiter, all smiles and professional politeness, appeared a moment later. "Do you two have a reservation?" she asked.

I hesitated. My brain scrambled for a way to explain this without sounding completely insane. "Uh... technically?" I said slowly, which sounded way less convincing out loud than it did in my head.

The waiter's smile widened just a fraction, and there was this teasing glint in her eye. "That's okay. I think we have a table for two, in case your little date was unplanned."

My eyes went wide. Christine's face? Bright red. Like, tomato red. Before either of us could sputter out something like We're not dating! a voice called from across the room.

"They're with me!"

Both of us turned toward the sound, and that's when I saw her.

She was seated at a corner table, one hand lifting in a casual wave. At first glance, she looked mid-thirties—shoulder-length blonde hair threaded with a few strands of silver, eyes a deep, rich brown that seemed to take in everything. Beautiful. And I don't throw that word around lightly. I've met Aphrodite, and even then, this woman... she had this quiet, graceful kind of beauty that didn't need glamours or magic.

She was dressed simply—white blouse, black leggings, nothing flashy—and yet, somehow, she owned the room without even trying.

The waiter just nodded, gesturing for us to go ahead. I started moving toward her table, but then I glanced at Christine... and she wasn't moving.