Chiara’s words have taken root in my mind, sprouting questions I can’t ignore. Why would Marco, with all his power and connections, refuse to help us discover our past? What could possibly make him so adamant about keeping us in the dark? He says it’s to protect us, but isn’t his power enough to do the same?
“Be careful what you wish for, Aria. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.”
His voice was gentle when he said it, almost tender. But his eyes had held something else. Fear? But…why?
Marco has been on edge since day before yesterday, since Chiara visited. His shoulders carry a new tension, his jaw perpetually clenched. Sometimes, I caught him staring at me with something that looked unsettlingly like dread.
The questions gnaw at me so deeply that I know I need answers. By now, I’m certain that Marco—dangerous as he is—doesn’t pose a threat to me. I believe that if I ask him honestly, he might understand—and maybe even help Chiara and me find the truth. Perhaps… even get revenge on whoever destroyed my parents.
But first, I have to talk to him. Mustering up all the confidence I can, I walk to his office. But I stop when I hear raised voices filter through the door.
“A wife is a pawn in our world, Marco. A means to an alliance, a vessel for heirs. Nothing more. You’re allowing yourself to be compromised by a pretty face,” someone says.
I listen closely, hear someone accuse him of having changed since he got married. Of being afraid.
“I am NOT!” Marco’s voice rises suddenly, startling me.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me, son!” The older man roars back. The last word from his sentence rings in my ears. “Since when have you been afraid of war at our doorstep?”
My lungs seize—Marco’s fighting with his father. War? What war?
I shouldn’t be here. Not pressed against Marco’s office door like a criminal, but clearly, they’re talking about something important.
Marco dismisses the absurd notion that I’m pregnant, and I freeze as his father speaks of men on the move—tracking leads, searching for them.
My breath catches, heart pounding as I wonder who they’re talking about. I piece it together—Marco’s father is doing something that terrifies him.
And his father is angry, believing Marco’s fear comes from trying to protect me.
Me?
Protect me from what?
Their voices drop, and I press closer to the door, straining to hear.
“Your wife should join us for dinner this Sunday. My daughter-in-law has been notably absent from family gatherings.”
I freeze when I realize Marco doesn’t confirm. He says he’ll ask me, almost as though he’s trying to buy time, to keep me from his father.
Silence follows. Then footsteps approach the door. I dart around the corner, pressing myself against the wall, holding my breath as Marco’s father strides off in the opposite direction.
I count to thirty after his footsteps fade, then peer around the corner. Through the gap, I can see Marco standing by the window, his back as rigid as stone as he looks out of the window.
Something in his posture—a defeated slump of the shoulders I’ve never seen before—makes my stomach twist. Whatever happened behind that closed door has left him deeply unsettled.
I retreat, my mind spinning. Marriage has made him soft? Children they need to find? War at their doorstep? The pieces won’t fit together, yet I can’t shake the feeling that Marco is hiding something from me. Something big.
Hours later, when the house settles into its nighttime quiet, I slip from our bed. Marco left for an emergency meeting after his father’s departure, promising to return late. The opportunity is too perfect to waste.
The lock on his study door is sophisticated but not impossible. During my wilder years, before Chiara’s debts forced me into respectability, I learned tricks that have proven unexpectedly useful. I remove two hairpins from my hair, bend them into the shapes I need, and set to work.
The lock yields. I glance over my shoulder, listening for any sign of movement in the house, then slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me.
The scent of Marco lingers in the study, making me pause, my resolve faltering. This is an invasion of his privacy, of his trust. Then the memory hits—the chill in his father’s voice when he mentioned tracking “them,” the flicker of fear in Marco’s eyes when I claimed the DeLuca name, and his firm warning that some secrets are best left buried.
I cross to his desk and pull the chain on the small brass lamp. Soft light pools across.
The top drawer yields nothing of interest—just office supplies. The second contains financial documents for Marco’s legitimate businesses. The third is locked.
This lock is simpler, meant to deter casual snooping rather than determined intrusion. It takes me less than a minute to spring it open.
Inside, a series of folders lay in neat rows, each labeled with a name.
My fingers trail across the tabs until they freeze on one name that sends electricity coursing through my veins.
Emilio DeLuca.
My father’s name.
With trembling hands, I lift the folder from the drawer. It’s thicker than the others, worn at the edges as if frequently handled. My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain it will give me away. I’m just about to open it when Marco’s voice, deadly quiet, cuts through the roaring in my ears.
“Found something interesting?”
I don’t need to look up to know he’s there, filling the doorway with his presence. I hear the soft click of the door closing, the measured steps as he crosses the room toward me.
Still, I can’t tear my eyes from the folder. I’m so close to answers, if only I open this. But, I don’t. I just stand there, holding these secrets I so want to know, a deer caught in the headlights.
The shadows shift, and his hand appears in my line of vision, snatching the folder from my grasp before I can make one more move. His fingers are white-knuckled around the edges.
Slowly, I raise my head to meet his gaze.
Marco’s face is drained of color, his green eyes dark with anger. For once, his carefully constructed mask has slipped, revealing something raw and agonized beneath.
“What did you want?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Answers,” I whisper, looking up at him. “You know my family.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t try to explain it away. He just stands there, clutching the folder, and gives me a nod.
“Why?” I ask, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is collapsing. “Why keep that from me? Why not just tell me what you know so I can find some peace? What’s in the folder?”
“Because you won’t find peace.” His words come out strangled. “You know who your parents are. Isn’t that enough?”
“I want to know who killed them!” I insist. “I want to—”
“Why?” His voice comes strangled. “Why does it matter?”
“Revenge,” I say, lifting my chin.
There’s a momentary silence. A quiet in the air. Something breaks in his expression at that. He takes a step toward me, then stops himself.
“Revenge never ends well. It’s dangerous.”
I clench to hide how badly my hands are shaking. “But… you’re powerful, aren’t you? You can protect me, can’t you? Unless you think I’m a liability… not worth your time.” My voice trembles as tears pool in my eyes, at the thought that this whole time, I believed he would do anything for me.
“No.” The vehemence in his voice startles me. “I’d never view you as a liability. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you.”
“Protect me?” I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “By keeping me ignorant? You can protect me by arming me with the truth!”
“I can protect you by keeping you alive!” he says, and there’s such raw honesty in his voice that it momentarily silences me.
Before I can react, his hands are cupping my face, his touch impossibly gentle despite the intensity burning in his eyes.
“I’ll keep you safe, Aria. Both of you. I swear it. Just… stop digging. It can bring you nothing but pain.”
I want to believe him. God help me, despite everything, I want to trust the sincerity blazing in his eyes. But the folder on the table tells a different story.
“Why should I trust you?” I shriek. “You knew my family and won’t tell me a word!”
“Because I’m your husband!” he roars, towering over me.
“And what kind of husband lets their wife suffer like this?” I scream, “Does it make you happy, keeping me in the dark?”
I gasp as Marco’s hands clamp down on either side of me, his body caging me in as he has me pinned against the desk.
The intensity in his eyes is almost suffocating, a storm raging within those dark green depths.
“You want the truth, Aria? You can’t handle it.” His breath trembles, and I catch a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or is it fear… fear of losing me? A shiver runs down my spine as his control snaps, like a taut wire stretched beyond its limit.
And in that moment, I know. He’s not just hiding something—he’s hiding everything.
