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Marco has been on edge since day before yesterday, since Chiara visited. His shoulders carry a new tension, his jaw perpetually clenched. Sometimes, I caught him staring at me with something that looked unsettlingly like dread.

The questions gnaw at me so deeply that I know I need answers. By now, I’m certain that Marco—dangerous as he is—doesn’t pose a threat to me. I believe that if I ask him honestly, he might understand—and maybe even help Chiara and me find the truth. Perhaps… even get revenge on whoever destroyed my parents.

But first, I have to talk to him. Mustering up all the confidence I can, I walk to his office. But I stop when I hear raised voices filter through the door.

“A wife is a pawn in our world, Marco. A means to an alliance, a vessel for heirs. Nothing more. You’re allowing yourself to be compromised by a pretty face,” someone says.

I listen closely, hear someone accuse him of having changed since he got married. Of being afraid.

“I am NOT!” Marco’s voice rises suddenly, startling me.

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me, son!” The older man roars back. The last word from his sentence rings in my ears. “Since when have you been afraid of war at our doorstep?”

My lungs seize—Marco’s fighting with his father. War? What war?

I shouldn’t be here. Not pressed against Marco’s office door like a criminal, but clearly, they’re talking about something important.

Marco dismisses the absurd notion that I’m pregnant, and I freeze as his father speaks of men on the move—tracking leads, searching for them.

My breath catches, heart pounding as I wonder who they’re talking about. I piece it together—Marco’s father is doing something that terrifies him.

And his father is angry, believing Marco’s fear comes from trying to protect me.

Me?

Protect me from what?

Their voices drop, and I press closer to the door, straining to hear.

“Your wife should join us for dinner this Sunday. My daughter-in-law has been notably absent from family gatherings.”

I freeze when I realize Marco doesn’t confirm. He says he’ll ask me, almost as though he’s trying to buy time, to keep me from his father.

Silence follows. Then footsteps approach the door. I dart around the corner, pressing myself against the wall, holding my breath as Marco’s father strides off in the opposite direction.

I count to thirty after his footsteps fade, then peer around the corner. Through the gap, I can see Marco standing by the window, his back as rigid as stone as he looks out of the window.

Something in his posture—a defeated slump of the shoulders I’ve never seen before—makes my stomach twist. Whatever happened behind that closed door has left him deeply unsettled.

I retreat, my mind spinning. Marriage has made him soft? Children they need to find? War at their doorstep? The pieces won’t fit together, yet I can’t shake the feeling that Marco is hiding something from me. Something big.

Hours later, when the house settles into its nighttime quiet, I slip from our bed. Marco left for an emergency meeting after his father’s departure, promising to return late. The opportunity is too perfect to waste.

The lock on his study door is sophisticated but not impossible. During my wilder years, before Chiara’s debts forced me into respectability, I learned tricks that have proven unexpectedly useful. I remove two hairpins from my hair, bend them into the shapes I need, and set to work.

The lock yields. I glance over my shoulder, listening for any sign of movement in the house, then slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me.

The scent of Marco lingers in the study, making me pause, my resolve faltering. This is an invasion of his privacy, of his trust. Then the memory hits—the chill in his father’s voice when he mentioned tracking “them,” the flicker of fear in Marco’s eyeswhen I claimed the DeLuca name, and his firm warning that some secrets are best left buried.

I cross to his desk and pull the chain on the small brass lamp. Soft light pools across.

The top drawer yields nothing of interest—just office supplies. The second contains financial documents for Marco’s legitimate businesses. The third is locked.

This lock is simpler, meant to deter casual snooping rather than determined intrusion. It takes me less than a minute to spring it open.

Inside, a series of folders lay in neat rows, each labeled with a name.

My fingers trail across the tabs until they freeze on one name that sends electricity coursing through my veins.