Page 57 of Fire and Silk

He shifts closer and sets his elbows on his knees. His eyes settle on mine.

“You and Marco... you were born into something deeper than you realized. I don’t know everything, but I know this much—Chiara made a deal. A long time ago. And when she did, she secured an empire for you and Marco.”

I stare at him, confused. “What kind of deal?”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “A bloodline deal. One that placed you both as inheritors to part of the Dantès family's holdings—one of the most powerful families in the underworld. Old money. Deep roots. Dangerous as hell.”

My skin turns cold.

“The papers—there’s a set of them in a vault,” he continues. “Your name is on them. As the heir. And under your name, there’s a clause... a bond. That names a secondary protector.”

He pauses.

And then he says it, slow and heavy.

“It names me.”

I blink .

“You?”

He nods. “I saw the copy. I didn’t understand all of it at first. But I recognized the seal. And your mother’s signature. The role is legal. If something happens to you—or if you’re deemed vulnerable—the protector can act in your name.”

I tilt my face slightly, a strange weight building behind my eyes.

“But that role...” I whisper. “That’s meant for a spouse.”

The words fall out of my mouth before I fully process them. My heart skips. Then thuds.

In all the old traditions, in every mafia story I half-listened to as a child, there was always that clause. A protectionclause. The spouse—usually the husband—was listed as an override to ensure the family’s power stayed intact, even if the heir couldn’t act. It was about lineage. About blood. And marriage.

Which means—

My mouth goes dry.

My mother married me off.

I stare at him, breath caught in my throat, vision wavering. My body still feels weak, but the heat rising in my chest now isn’t from sickness or strain. It’s anger—quiet and deep and shaking.

I turn toward him fully, my voice trembling.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He flinches, just slightly. Like he expected it, but it still stings.

After a breath, he speaks, slow and careful, as though explaining to someone smaller than the pain they’re carrying.

“After Marco died,” he says, “I stayed close. I circled the edges, I checked in with your case worker, your doctor. I kept thinking the mafia—hisfamily—would make a move while you were in rehab. I thought the bond would activate and someone would come for you.”

He draws a hand down his jaw. His voice is quiet but clear.

“But no one did. Nothing happened. You recovered, and it was like the world moved on without the contract ever meaning anything. So, I thought maybe it had dissolved. Maybe your mother had exaggerated its weight.”

His hand reaches into the side pocket of his bag, and he pulls out a small, worn journal with a leather cover.

He holds it out to me.

“I didn’t want to bring this here,” he says softly. “But I needed you to see it yourself.”