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“Explain what?” I spit, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly aware of my nakedness, feeling exposed in every possible way. “Explain how you’ve been lying to me since the day we met? How you took me into your bed knowing your father murdered mine?”

“I didn’t know at first,” he says quietly. “I swear to you, Aria. I thought you were just Chiara’s sister, caught in her debt. It wasn’t until the day of the wedding that I discovered who you really were.”

“And then what?” I demand, tears burning behind my eyes. “You decided to keep me in the dark? To fuck me into submission whenever I got too close to the truth?”

He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “That’s not—last night wasn’t about distraction.”

“Wasn’t it?” I laugh, a harsh, broken sound that scrapes my throat. “You had me bent over the same desk where you keep files on my murdered father. Tell me that wasn’t deliberate, Marco.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he insists, and I see desperation in his eyes now. “Yes, I wanted to keep you from the folder. But not because I was using sex to manipulate you. Because I knew once you learned the truth, you’d look at me exactly like you’re looking at me now. Like I’m a monster.”

“What did you expect?” My voice breaks on the question. “Your father slaughtered my family. And you protected him. You chose him over me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouts, the composure he usually maintains fracturing before my eyes. “My father is hunting the DeLuca heirs now. He doesn’t know it’s you—yet. But if he finds out, if anyone finds out…”

His phone rings, cutting through the tension between us. He ignores it at first, his eyes never leaving mine, but it keeps ringing, persistent and shrill.

“Answer it,” I say coldly. “It might be Daddy calling for a progress report on the hunt.”

Pain flashes across Marco’s face, but he reaches for the phone, glancing at the screen. His expression shifts instantly to one of alarm.

“I have to take this,” he says, already accepting the call. “Nicolo, what’s happening?” He listens, his face growing grimmer by the second. “I’ll be right there. Twenty minutes.”

He ends the call, turning back to me with conflict written across his features. “There’s an emergency at the docks. One of our shipments—it’s complicated. I have to go.”

“By all means,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Don’t let me keep you from your family business.”

“Aria,” he says, and my name sounds like a prayer on his lips. “We need to talk about this. About us. About what happens next. But I have to handle this first. Promise me you’ll let me explain everything when I’m back.”

I look at him—this man I’ve foolishly given my heart to, this son of my family’s murderer—and feel nothing but a hollow ache where my rage burned moments ago.

I nod, the motion small, uncertain. The words stay trapped in my throat, too bitter to speak. I can’t promise him anything—not without breaking both of us.

Relief floods his expression. He crosses to me in two quick strides, and before I can react, his hands are cupping my face, his forehead pressed against mine.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers. “Everything I’ve done since I learned the truth has been to keep you safe. To keep you with me. I—” He stops, swallows hard. “I want you to believe me. When I get back, I’ll tell you everything.”

He presses a desperate kiss to my lips, then releases me and strides into his closet to dress.

I stand there, frozen, until I hear him leave, the bedroom door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds like finality.

The moment I’m alone, the tears I’ve been holding back spill over, trailing hot paths down my cheeks. I sink to the floor, mylegs no longer able to support me, and allow myself exactly two minutes of silent sobbing.

Then I wipe my face, stand up, and start packing.

I won’t be here when Marco returns. I can’t be. I can’t listen to any more of his lies. Every moment in this house, surrounded by reminders of the man I love and loathe in equal measure, feels like drowning.

I need space to breathe, to think, to decide what comes next. I need my sister. I need the truth, not the sanitized version Marco will surely try to present.

Most of all, I need to reclaim who I am.

Aria DeLuca, daughter of Emilio and Sofia.

Not Aria Bianchi, wife of their enemy’s son.

As I zip the bag closed, my eyes fall on the photo frame beside our—Marco’s—bed. The only picture I have of my parents, the one the orphanage gave us. I pick it up, studying their smiling faces with new understanding.

They weren’t just any couple who died tragically. They were Emilio and Sofia DeLuca. They were murdered by Salvatore Bianchi. And their daughter married their killer’s son.