•1940
The battlefield was an unforgiving expanse of smoke, blood, and chaos. Verohn Corazon, her once-pristine uniform now stained and torn, moved quickly through the crowded tent of the Italian field hospital. At 23 years old, she had traded her quiet life in the vineyard for the harsh realities of war. Her hands trembled as she tightened a tourniquet around a soldier’s leg, the stench of antiseptic and decay choking the air.
Giovanna Ciricillo, 15 years her senior and her mentor since deployment, entered the tent like a storm. With her sharp eyes and commanding presence, Giovanna had earned the respect of her colleagues and soldiers alike. She crouched beside Verohn, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Focus, Ragazza,” she said softly. “We can’t afford hesitation.”
Verohn nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. Under Giovanna’s guidance, she learned to steel herself against the horrors around her. Over time, their relationship grew into something deeper than camaraderie—a bond forged in the crucible of war. Giovanna became a mentor, a confidante, and the sister Verohn had never had.
But in May 1941, their fragile world shattered. Before dawn, screams tore through the canvas walls of the hospital. Enemy soldiers had launched a surprise attack, tearing through the camp with ruthless efficiency. Verohn jolted awake to the sound of gunfire and the metallic scent of blood. Giovanna shook her violently.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Get up!” Giovanna hissed, thrusting a scalpel into Verohn’s hand. “We’re not dying here.”
The tent flaps burst open, and chaos erupted. Verohn’s movements were frantic and untrained, but desperation guided her strikes. She slashed at the attackers, each movement a fight for survival. Giovanna’s precision was chilling—her blade cut through the air with calculated force, her every move a testament to her determination to survive.
A bullet tore through Verohn’s side, sending her sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground. Pain seared through her, the world blurring at the edges. Through the haze, she heard Giovanna’s voice, steady and unyielding.
“Stay with me, Ragazza. Stay.”
Their injuries were severe, but they survived. Honorably discharged after months of recovery, the women returned to civilian life carrying scars deeper than flesh. Giovanna turned to cocaine, seeking solace in the numbing escape it offered. Verohn, struggling with chronic pain and haunting memories, found herself dependent on opium-laced candies.
Verohn’s trauma ran deeper still. The ambush had rendered her mute—a psychosomatic response to the overwhelming stress. She learned to communicate through American Sign Language, a skill both women had been trained in for wartime nursing, and Morse code. Their shared battles became a language of their own, a silent understanding that spoke louder than words.
•DECEMBER 1941
News reached them of the Silver Legion of America’s dissolution. The group’s open support for Mussolini and Hitler had forced the U.S. government to take action, but the victory was short-lived. Former members defected to Germany and Italy, reforming under the banner of the Silver Legion of Italy and Germany—the SLIG. Their presence loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon, a harbinger of the conflict yet to come.
In this turbulent world, Verohn and Giovanna clung to each other as lifelines. Their bond was unbreakable, but their wounds—physical, emotional, and moral—were far from healed.