I lie in bed, unable to sleep. How could I sleep when my entire identity shattered like glass just hours ago? I’m not simply Aria, the unlucky orphan. If Chiara is right, I’m Aria DeLuca, daughter of murdered mafia royalty.
Marco made sure Chiara left and promised to protect her should she need it. But his haste to get her out was confusing.
I know he’s worried I’ll be in danger, but I can’t see how knowing my background could be fatal. There’s a difference between knowing something and acting on it.
Marco is now sleeping in these quarters, and I find myself wide awake, checking my phone every few minutes. I texted Chiara the moment she was out of the compound and asked her to reach out when she thought it was safe to meet. I have so many questions about this revelation that press against my chest, making each breath feel like an effort.
DeLuca. All these years, I believed our parents were ordinary people who died in a tragic accident. Middle-class nobodies. Now, I learn I have the lineage of a very powerful name.
What does that mean for me?
Marco’s warning echoes in my head: “Whatever you’ve found about your family, lay to rest, or else…” But can I? The questions multiply like cancer cells—who ordered the hit on my parents? Why were we hidden away? Does Marco know more than he’s telling me? He’s from the same world. He must know something.
My phone vibrates softly against the nightstand. I pick it up instantly.
Chiara: House looks quiet. I’m waiting outside by the east wall. Please come if you can.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Forget safety. I’m already calculating the fastest route to the east wall.
I slip into jeans and a black sweater, shoving my feet into soft-soled boots that won’t make a sound.
I creep down the hallway and stairs, trying to avoid making a sound. The security system is state-of-the-art, but Marco showed me how to bypass it on our third night together. “In case you ever need to get out if we’re attacked,” he’d said, though his tone made it clear he didn’t expect that to happen if he was still around. Now, I enter the code on the panel beside the service entrance, watching the light shift from red to green.
It’s cold outside. The grounds sprawl before me, moonlit and quiet. Too quiet. I know Marco’s men patrol the perimeter, but I don’t see any of them now. They must be on the other side.
I stick to the shadows, slipping from one patch of darkness to the next, staying hidden for when the guards come this way again.
When I reach the east wall, my sister emerges from the darkness like my reflection stepping out of a mirror. We don’t hug. The tension between us still simmers beneath the surface—her abandonment, my resentment.
“You came,” she whispers, her breath fogging in the cool night air.
“I need answers,” I reply, crossing my arms. “You dropped a bomb on me, Chi. How did you find out?”
She offers a ghost of a smile. “Remember when we used to binge those true crime documentaries? I always felt drawn to the organized crime ones, especially the old cases. Now I know why.”
“I want the whole story,” I demand. “From the start.”
Chiara leans against the stone wall.
“It began with a photo—black and white, grainy as hell. I stumbled across it by accident while scrolling through an old newspaper archive; a faded photo caught my eye—Emilio and Sofia DeLuca. But the faces in that photo… they haunted me, Aria. They were so young in the picture. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Something about them felt so familiar.”
My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the night air. “Familiar how?”
“That’s what haunted me for weeks,” Chiara continues, her voice dropping lower. “Until one night, I finally understood. They looked like our parents, Aria—just like that photograph we’ve held onto all these years.”
The photograph—a worn, creased image of a smiling couple the orphanage gave us, said to be our parents before they died. Chiara and I had copies made, and I’ve slept with mine tucked under my pillow for twenty-five years.
“The photo in the archives was so grainy, I thought I was imagining things,” she says. “I had a computer expert enhance the image. When I compared them side by side… they were the same people, Aria. Our parents weren’t random strangers lost in a car crash. They were Emilio and Sofia DeLuca.”
My legs weaken beneath me. I reach for the wall to steady myself.
“I went back to the orphanage,” Chiara continues. “Asked questions about our parents, our arrival there. The director gave me the same story we’ve always heard, but her eyes… they had fear in them, Aria. Real fear.”
“So what did you do?” I ask, already knowing my sister’s relentless nature.
“I was about to leave when a security guard pulled me aside. Old guy, been there forever. He told me if I wanted real answers, I needed to find a man named Linos who used to work there when we were brought in.” Her expression darkens. “But he made it clear these answers wouldn’t come cheap.”
The truth drops like a stone in my gut. “That’s why you started borrowing money?”
She nods, shame and defiance warring on her face. “I tracked down Linos. He was living in a run-down apartment across town, drinking himself to death on cheap vodka. It took several visits—and several payments—before he started talking.”
“What did he tell you?” I press, conscious of every passing minute that puts us at risk of discovery.
“He confirmed everything. We arrived at the orphanage in the middle of the night, carried by a woman who looked like she’d come straight from hell—or so he said. Our aunt Teresa. She left letters to be given to us when we turned eighteen, but they were ‘mysteriously lost.’” Her fingers curl into air quotes. “Except Linos took them. Kept them all these years as insurance, planning to use them to make some quick money later. When I asked what his plan was, he said he’d give them to the right people—whoever found him first.”
My mouth goes dry. “You have them? The letters?”
Chiara nods slowly. “They’re hidden. Safe. She says she loves us, our parents love us, but were betrayed, and she wants us to be at peace and happy. She escaped with us but knew they’d be hunting her, too.”
“And was she—”
“Killed? No. I hired private investigators to trace her. She died of cancer years ago, but could never come to look for us; it would have risked all our identities.” Chiara’s eyes glisten in the moonlight. “But that’s not all, Aria. Teresa wrote that there are families still loyal to the DeLucas. People who would stand with us if they knew we were alive.”
“And that’s why you kept borrowing,” I whisper. “To find them.”
“I needed to know if we had allies before I told you any of this,” she explains. “I wanted to protect you, should I have been discovered.”
“So you let me marry Marco instead?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Chiara winces, her voice low and heavy with regret. “I had a plan—to keep you safe and give us both a way out. I knew he’d marry you; there was no stopping it. But I also knew he’d offer you protection from D’Angelo while I was away. The marriage isn’t legal. It’s my name on the certificate, but I wasn’t actually there. That means it can be annulled. I needed the money and more time to uncover the truth about our parents. I know how dangerous Marco is, and I knew he wouldn’t like us trying to trick him. But I had to take that risk—I’ve already risked everything. I’m sorry I put you through this, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I knew you wouldn’t agree—it’s still a gamble. But I was halfway there and I couldn’t stop.”
“Chiara, you should have told me sooner. Maybe then I could have understood.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and for the first time since she returned to my life, I believe her. “But we need to focus on what matters now. I’ve reached out to some of the loyal families. They’re cautious, but willing to meet. I’ve used part of that money to uncover who killed our parents.”
I suck in some air, grip her hand. “Do we know?” My voice trembles. I want, so very desperately, the names responsible for giving us a life of such misery.
She shakes her head. “No one’s talking yet.”
“I want revenge. Chiara, do whatever it takes. Pay any price. Find those answers. They took everything from us.”
“Everything,” Chiara nods, eyes blazing with tears.
For a brief moment, we simply stand there—as sisters. I finally understand why she kept silent. Once again, I realize she carried all these secrets alone, unwilling to burden me with what she knew. As always, she was protecting me—and I’ve hated her for it.
“I’ve been horrible to you,” I admit. “I’m sorry, Chi.”
I don’t know how else to say it. How truly sorry I am.
She reaches over and grips my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You didn’t know,” she whispers. “I’ve always got your back, you know that, right?” She tightens her grip, urgency threading her voice. “Now listen—we need to be careful. If the people who killed our parents find out we’re alive—”
“Marco said the same thing,” I interrupt. “He warned me not to dig into this.”
Suspicion flashes across her eyes. “He was quite vehement for us not to dig further, wasn’t he? I wonder… why would he care so much about keeping us in the dark about our history? He has so much power. It would be a day’s work for him to get us answers.”
The question sinks like a stone in my stomach. Does Marco know something he’s not telling me?
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. We just stand there a while, no more words to be said for now.
“I should get back,” I say at last when I notice the moon and stars begin to recede, aware of how long I’ve been gone. “Before he wakes up.”
Chiara squeezes my hands. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll figure this out together, like we always have.”
I nod.
The return journey to the house feels twice as long. My mind races with new questions, new fears. By the time I slip back into bed, dawn is threatening at the edges of the sky.
But exhaustion eventually claims me, dragging me into fitful sleep filled with dreams of faceless men hunting twin girls through endless corridors.
When I wake, Marco is in my room, watching me. He sits on the edge of the bed, already dressed in one of his immaculate suits, his green eyes guarded. Beside me, I notice, is a breakfast tray.
“You look tired,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Bad dreams?”
I push myself up, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Something like that.”
His eyes narrow slightly. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over a smudge. I look at his finger and see a hint of dirt, evidence of my midnight excursion.
My heart stops.
“Some truths are better left buried, Aria,” he says softly.
He knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Fear trickles down my spine like melting ice.
“I want to know who I am,” I say, lifting my chin in defiance. “I have that right.”
Marco’s jaw tightens. “You’re my wife. That’s who you are now.”
“I’m more than just your wife,” I counter, surprising myself with my boldness. “I’m a DeLuca, Marco. And I need to know what that means.”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger? fear?—but he stands before I can identify it, straightening his already perfect tie.
“Be careful what you wish for, Aria,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.”
As he walks out of the bedroom, I clench my fists beneath the sheets. I am done being kept in the dark. If Marco won’t give me answers, I’ll find them myself—with Chiara, with these loyal families, wherever the truth may hide.
I am Aria DeLuca, and I refuse to be afraid of my own shadow any longer.
