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The return journey to the house feels twice as long. My mind races with new questions, new fears. By the time I slip back into bed, dawn is threatening at the edges of the sky.

But exhaustion eventually claims me, dragging me into fitful sleep filled with dreams of faceless men hunting twin girls through endless corridors.

When I wake,Marco is in my room, watching me. He sits on the edge of the bed, already dressed in one of his immaculate suits, his green eyes guarded. Beside me, I notice, is a breakfast tray.

“You look tired,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Bad dreams?”

I push myself up, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Something like that.”

His eyes narrow slightly. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over a smudge. I look at his finger and see a hint of dirt, evidence of my midnight excursion.

My heart stops.

“Some truths are better left buried, Aria,” he says softly.

He knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Fear trickles down my spine like melting ice.

“I want to know who I am,” I say, lifting my chin in defiance. “I have that right.”

Marco’s jaw tightens. “You’re my wife. That’s who you are now.”

“I’m more than just your wife,” I counter, surprising myself with my boldness. “I’m a DeLuca, Marco. And I need to know what that means.”

Something flashes in his eyes—anger? fear?—but he stands before I can identify it, straightening his already perfect tie.

“Be careful what you wish for, Aria,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.”

As he walks out of the bedroom, I clench my fists beneath the sheets. I am done being kept in the dark. If Marco won’t give me answers, I’ll find them myself—with Chiara, with these loyal families, wherever the truth may hide.

I am Aria DeLuca, and I refuse to be afraid of my own shadow any longer.

18

MARCO

Istare at the spreadsheets on my monitor, but the numbers refuse to make sense. My mind keeps drifting back to the smudge of dirt I wiped from Aria’s cheek this morning. I suspect she’s trying to contact her sister, but the confirmation sits like lead in my stomach. The DeLuca twins are digging into their past—the very past my family buried in blood decades ago.

I rub my temples, feeling the onset of a migraine. The ledgers show a healthy profit margin across all our legitimate businesses, but I can’t focus on them. Not when my wife is sneaking out in the dead of night, risking everything—her safety, perhaps even her life—for answers I pray she never finds.

“I’m more than just your wife,” she had said, her chin tilted in that stubborn angle I find both infuriating and endearing. “I’m a DeLuca.”

If only she knew what that name means to my family. What it means to bear that name in a world where Bianchis still rule.

My phone buzzes with a security alert. Someone has entered the main gate. I tap the screen to bring up the camera feed, my body tensing as I recognize the sleek black Bentley winding its way up the driveway.

My father.

I stand, buttoning my jacket, feeling the turmoil churning beneath my composed exterior. I straighten my desk, close the ledgers, and clear my screen. Then I wait.

Two minutes later, the door to my office swings open without a knock. My father strides in like he has a right to me whenever he wants, however he wants. It’s his little way of showing me exactly who is in charge.

At sixty-three, Salvatore hasn’t lost an ounce of the intimidating presence that cemented the Bianchi family’s position at the top of the criminal world’s hierarchy. His eyes—the same deep green as mine—meet mine instantly.

“Marco,” he says, his voice carrying the slight rasp of decades of expensive cigars.

“Father. This is unexpected.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk, but he remains standing, forcing me to come around and greet him properly.

We embrace briefly, the practiced formality we’ve always had.