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“Morning,” I whisper, unable to summon anything more eloquent.

His lips curve into a smile that transforms his entire face, making him look younger, almost carefree. It’s a rare expression that I’ve seen only a handful of times.

“No regrets?” he asks, his finger now tracing the outline of my lips.

I should say yes. I should tell him I regret every moment of weakness, every kiss, every touch. Instead, I find myself shaking my head.

“No regrets,” I lie, because the truth is too complicated to voice. I regret not the pleasure, but the trust I’ve given so easily despite the secrets between us.

Relief flashes across his face. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then rolls out of bed in one fluid motion.

“I need to shower,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, giving me a full view of his muscled back.

God, he’s gorgeous.

“Join me?” he offers, glancing back with a wicked gleam in his eye that makes my body respond traitorously.

“I’ll wait my turn,” I say lazily, cuddling back into the bed. I don’t want to leave just yet, wanting to savor his warmth and smell still beside me on the sheets.

He nods and disappears into the bathroom.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a text notification. Chiara. A tendril of guilt snakes through me. I’ve been so caught up in Marco that I haven’t checked in with my sister since our last meeting.

I reach for the phone, swiping open her message.

Need to see you NOW. I have proof. The people I paid came through. Salvatore Bianchi ordered the hit on our parents. The Bianchi family massacred the DeLucas. Your husband’s father killed our parents, Aria.

The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The room spins around me as the words echo in my head. Salvatore Bianchi. Marco’s father. The man whose voice I heard outside Marco’s office, talking about finding “them.”

Hunting us.

I scramble for my phone, fingers trembling as I unlock it again to reread the message, praying I misunderstood. But the words remain unchanged, brutal in their clarity.

Bile rises in my throat. Marco’s father killed my parents. And Marco…

Marco knew. He must have known. All this time, while I shared his bed, while I opened myself to him in every way possible, he knew who I was—what his family has done to mine.

Last night makes horrible sense now. His desperate need to distract me from that folder. The way he fucked me senseless rather than give me answers.

I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to scream or vomit or both. The shower stops running, and panic seizes me. What do I do? How do I face him now?

I force myself to breathe, to gather the shattered pieces of my composure. I need to hear him say it. Need to see his face when I confront him with the truth.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam and the scent of Marco’s soap. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets clinging to his chest hair, his wet hair slicked back from his forehead. Any other morning, the sight would have sent desire coursing through me. Now, I feel nothing but cold fury.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my rigid posture, the phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip.

“Your father killed my parents,” I say, the words falling like stones between us.

Marco freezes, one hand still gripping the towel at his waist. His face pales, but there’s no shock there—only resignation and a deep, terrible sadness that confirms my worst fears.

“You knew,” I whisper, and it’s not a question. “All this time, you knew who I was, what your family did to mine. You married me knowing I was a DeLuca.”

He takes a step toward me, hand extended. “Aria. I didn’t know when I made the proposal, I swear. I knew you by your adopted name. I didn’t know until the wedding day and?—”

“Don’t!” I jerk away from him, scrambling off the bed, suddenly desperate to put distance between us. “Don’t touch me.”

“Please,” he says, and there’s raw anguish in his voice that pierces through my anger for just a moment. “Let me explain.”