Page 4 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

M y apartment is too quiet.

It always was when Mom worked late shifts at Lakeshore Cab, but tonight… the silence feels different. Heavier. Like the walls are listening. Like someone—or something-is holding its breath, just out of sight.

I sit at the piano in the living room, my fingers brushing the keys without purpose.

A hollow melody stumbles out, broken and incomplete, like my thoughts.

In three days, I’m set to debut at the Lincoln Center—a stage I’ve dreamed of since I was ten.

But the weight of it presses down like a stone on my chest.

Maybe it’s no surprise. You don’t bury your mother and then come back whole.

It’s been twelve days since she died, and her absence isn’t just a feeling—it’s a presence. A shadow curled in every corner. The apartment still smells like her—jasmine and old vinyl—and that makes it worse. The grief is sharp, but the loneliness is sharper.

And now there’s this other thing.

This prickling at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched. Like the air isn’t mine anymore, I tell myself it’s the grief. The pressure. The lack of sleep. However, I still double-check the locks before I play. Still, I keep the blinds half-closed even though it’s nearly noon.

The piano used to be my sanctuary. Now, it even feels foreign. The notes don’t comfort—they echo. I press down harder on the keys, trying to force something out, but it’s like the music doesn’t recognize me anymore.

Just like everything else.

Mom would usually hum along from the kitchen while cooking dinner, the scent of simmering Ghanaian spices filling the air—a chale sauce for Cornbeef Stew or a peanut sauce for chicken.

Each dish from her homeland always pushed a different sound from her lips.

Now, the absence of that comforting noise makes my chest ache.

I lean into the piano, my forehead brushing the cool wood. A framed photo of Mom and me rests on top, its edges worn from years of handling. My fingers linger on the keys as a flash of memory overtakes me.

Mom’s laugh is rich and warm, like the songs we’d play together on Sunday mornings.

I watch her now, the way sunlight dances on her copper skin as she prepares our breakfast. She’s standing at the stove, flipping plantains, her movements unhurried and precise.

The air smells sweet and earthy, a comfort I’d give anything to feel again.

“I may not have riches to leave you, my love,” she says, low and certain, “but I’ll always leave you with the truth.”

I look up from the table, surprised by the weight of her words. “The truth about what?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

Mom pauses, her spatula hovering over the pan. Her eyes, soft but unwavering, meet mine. “About everything,” she says. “About who you are. About love.”

“Love?” I laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “What do you know about love?”

She smiles a little sadly and sets the spatula down. “Not much,” she admits. “Not the kind of love that lasts, anyway. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t out there. You have to be open to it, Lucia. Even if it’s scary. Even if it doesn’t look like you imagined.”

A knock at the door startles me out of the memory. My fingers still, the last note hanging dissonantly in the air. I rise, wiping my hands on my jeans as I move cautiously toward the door.

I glance through the peephole. A man stands in the dim hallway, his face partially shadowed.

He’s wearing a courier’s uniform, but what catches my eye is the envelope in his hand—black, with a large, blood-red “R” stamped boldly across the front.

Seeing it makes my stomach twist, a chill running down my spine.

“Miss Asare?” he calls, his tone professional but neutral. It’s also annoying because he butchered my name. What should sound like “Ah-sah-ree” sounds like “A-say-ree.”

I hesitate. I’m not expecting anything. But the man doesn’t look threatening, and curiosity nudges me to undo the chain and crack the door open.

“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “I’m Ms. Asare.”

“This is for you,” he says, holding the envelope.

I take it, my fingers brushing against the coarse paper. The envelope’s texture is rough and cold against my skin. A faint metallic scent clings to it, sending a ripple of unease through me. Before I can thank him, the man turns and disappears down the hall, his steps echoing faintly.

Closing the door, I return to the piano bench, my hands trembling as I hold the ominous envelope.

My name is scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting. Carefully, I slide a finger under the flap and pull out a single sheet of paper.

The words stop me cold:

Lucia,

Your father is Don Matteo Ricci.

He has been watching you from the shadows since you were born.

The time for secrecy is over.

Everything you need is enclosed.

Read carefully—your life depends on it.

My heart hammers as I unfold a second piece of paper.

Bank statements. Regular deposits into an account under my name—$10,000 monthly for the past eighteen years.

That’s over two million dollars, sitting untouched in an account I didn’t even know existed.

Mom never mentioned money like this, not a man like Matteo Ricci.

The name alone makes my stomach churn.

Not to mention his title. Don-what is this, The Godfather?

Is this note from Mama?

No, this has to be a joke.

My hands tremble as I stare at the documents, fear rising in a swift, uncontrollable wave.

Matteo Ricci.

The name is infamous in New York. He’s always in the news—a shadowy figure tied to power plays, criminal enterprises, and a reputation that stretches across continents.

My music professors whisper about the Ricci family like a modern-day legend. They are our most prominent patrons, and here I am, somehow tied to them and tied to him ?

One thing I know for sure is that Matteo Ricci is very White and very Italian. Me? Though I’m the shade of a butter cookie, I’m Blackity Black, Black-Black, and I always have been.

From my thick, beautiful lips to the generous hips my West African roots afforded me. The idea of being connected to some Italian crime family, let alone being a mafia princess, feels absurd. It doesn’t make sense—it can’t.

It can’t be true. Mom would have told me, wouldn’t she?

Perhaps she arranged for this to be sent to me after she was gone.

But she wouldn’t leave me to deal with this kind of news alone.

That wasn’t her way. When she was diagnosed with stage three Leukemia, she spent her last twelve months on this earth making sure I knew how to do everything from making meat pies to accessing her death benefits.

Undoubtedly, she would have faced me for something like this.

I reach for my phone, and my first instinct is to call someone, but who? Mama isn’t here to answer. The raw grief I’ve been holding back since the memorial service surges forward, catching me off guard. Tears spill down my cheeks as I clutch the paper, my breath shallow and ragged.

I’m truly alone.

The sound of glass shattering pierces through my haze, yanking me out of my thoughts. My head snaps toward the kitchen, adrenaline spiking through my veins. The sharp crunch of broken glass under heavy boots follows, each step deliberate and measured.

Someone is in the apartment.

Fear grips me, tightening around my chest like a vise, but instinct kicks in.

I shove the documents into my pocket and scramble to my feet, backing away from the piano.

My eyes dart frantically around the room.

The dim light of the living room casts long, distorted shadows, but one of them moves—a deliberate and menacing silhouette heading straight for me.

“Who’s there?” I demand, my voice trembling.

No answer. Just the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps.

I grab the nearest object—a heavy candlestick from the side table—and hold it before me.

“Stay back!” I shout, my voice cracking.

The man steps into the light, and I see the glint of a weapon in his hand. Before I can scream, a second figure emerges behind me, a cloth pressed hard against my mouth and nose. I thrash, the candlestick slipping from my grasp as my vision blurs.

The last thing I see before darkness pulls me under is the photograph on the piano, Mama’s smiling face blurred and fading like a fragile memory slipping through my grasp.

* * *

When I briefly wake, my world is cloaked in darkness.

A blindfold presses tightly against my eyes, its rough fabric chafing my skin.

The air is cool, carrying a sharp tang of leather and gasoline, mingling with a faint metallic undertone that makes my stomach churn.

My wrists are bound behind me, the coarse rope digging into my skin, leaving it raw and throbbing.

Every slight movement sends a wave of pain shooting up my arms.

My chest tightens as panic claws its way up my throat.

My breathing speeds up, sharp and shallow, as I struggle to piece together what happened.

The scent of the vehicle—new leather mixed with lingering cigar smoke—feels overwhelming, almost suffocating.

The vibrations of the road hum beneath me, and the occasional car jolt makes my head swim.

My muscles scream in protest as I shift, desperate to sit up and orient myself.

“Stay still,” a low, unfamiliar voice growls from the front of the vehicle. The menace in his tone chills me to the core.

I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. The reality of my situation begins to sink in.

My discovery of Matteo Ricci wasn’t a coincidence.

This isn’t random.

This was planned.

That’s my last conscious thought before I feel a prick behind my ear, and darkness drowns me again.