Page 55

“Wait!” the figure gasps, hands coming up defensively.

I know that voice. Would know it anywhere, even whispered in fear.

“Chiara?” My voice cracks on my twin’s name.

“Lock the door,” she hisses, already moving to do it herself, but she finds none.

I stand frozen as she slides the deadbolt into place. Chiara—here, in Marco’s mansion.

Chiara, who vanished after handing me her fate like a death sentence. Chiara, who swore we’d be killed if I didn’t go through with it.

“What are you doing here?” I finally manage, the paperweight still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. “Do you have any idea how dangerous?—”

“I know exactly how dangerous,” she cuts me off, her voice low and fierce. “Why do you think I’m dressed like this?” She gestures to her black clothes, the hood, the gloves—a thief’s uniform, not a sister’s visiting attire.

Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. “You broke in? Past Marco’s security?”

She doesn’t deny it, just grabs my hands. Hers are ice-cold and trembling slightly. “I had to see you. Had to tell you what I found.”

“Found? Chiara, what?—”

“About our parents.” Her eyes burn with an intensity that makes me step back. “About what really happened to them.”

The room seems to tilt around me. Our parents—the vague memories in the few photos we managed to keep through the foster system. Dead in a car accident when we were just babies. Ancient history. Sealed records. A closed door.

“What are you talking about?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

Chiara glances nervously at the window. “I tracked down someone who knew them from before they died.” Her fingers dig into my arms. “Aria, I need you to confirm something for me. We were told they died in a car?—”

A shout from the hallway cuts her off. Heavy footsteps pound the corridor outside. There are multiple sets, and they’re moving fast.

“They’re coming.” Chiara’s face drains of color. “I thought I had more time?—”

“Hide,” I whisper urgently, tugging her toward the walk-in closet, but it’s already too late.

The door bursts open, wood splintering around the lock as three of Marco’s security guards force their way in, guns drawn. Their faces are hard masks of efficiency, eyes coldly assessing as they take in the scene: me in my silk pajamas, and a stranger dressed in black standing too close.

“Step away from Mrs. Bianchi,” the lead guard orders, his weapon trained on Chiara’s head.

I move instinctively between them and my sister. “Wait?—”

A rough hand grabs Chiara from behind, yanking her backward. Another guard twists her arms behind her, securing them with plastic zip ties while she struggles. The third keeps his gun leveled, his finger hovering near the trigger.

“Stop!” I cry out, lunging forward, but I am stopped by the first guard’s outstretched arm. “You’re hurting her!”

“Check her for weapons,” the lead guard instructs, and I watch in horror as they roughly pat down my sister, who doesn’t fight them, who tries to keep herself from being injured.

“Please,” I beg, switching tactics. “She’s not armed. She’s not dangerous. Just let me talk to her?—”

“Breach confirmed in the east wing,” one guard says into his radio. “One intruder apprehended in the primary bedroom. Awaiting instructions.”

The radio crackles. A voice I recognize as Marco’s security chief responds: “Hold position. Boss is en route.”

My blood turns to ice. Marco is coming. Marco, who tolerates no threats to what belongs to him.

Chiara seems to shrink in her captor’s grip, but her chin lifts defiantly. “I’m sorry,” she mouths to me from beneath her hood, and I’m not sure if she’s apologizing for coming here or for what’s about to happen.

I’m still trying to form a response when the atmosphere in the room changes, becoming charged and heavy, like the air before lightning strikes. The guards straighten imperceptibly, their faces becoming even more expressionless.