I stand outside the weathered oak door, but don’t walk in just yet. I want to remember this moment, one where everything changes.
Seven of my father’s most loyal allies wait on the other side, men who once bowed their heads to Emilio DeLuca and now, if fortune favors us, will pledge themselves to his daughters.
For twenty-five years, the DeLuca name has been a ghost, a whispered memory. Tonight, we breathe life back into it—and God help anyone who stands in our way.
“Do you really want to do this?” Chiara whispers nervously. “Once we step through that door, everything changes.”
I straighten my spine. “I stopped wanting to go back the moment I learned who Marco really was and who we were capable of being.”
His name burns my tongue like acid. One week since I left him, and still the wound feels raw, bleeding. Perhaps it always will.
“We could disappear,” Chiara suggests, not for the first time. “Change our names, go somewhere no one knows the DeLucas or the Bianchis. Somewhere safe.”
“There is no safe,” I tell her, the truth I’ve come to understand since Fabrizio snatched me off the street. “Not for us. Not anymore. The only way forward is through.”
Before she can argue further, I push the door open.
The room beyond smolders with tobacco smoke, ribbons of gray curling toward the ceiling. Crystal decanters of scotch glint in the light of a chandelier dimmed low enough to cast each face in dramatic shadow.
Seven men of varying ages sit around a mahogany table, conversations dying mid-sentence as we enter.
Time suspends itself as they turn, one by one, to look at us. I feel the air change, feel the collective intake of breath as recognition dawns. These men knew our father. Some perhaps even held us as infants. And for twenty-five years, they believed us dead.
At the head of the table sits a man in his early thirties, not much older than Chiara and me.
He rises slowly, his chair scraping against hardwood. The sound breaks the spell of silence.
He’s tall, with a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose, giving him a deceptively boyish appearance. His long, black, wavy hair frames his face in an untamed cascade, and when he locks eyes with me, I see the warmth in them.
This here is a man I can trust.
“Aria and Chiara DeLuca,” he says with a trembling voice. “My God, is it really you?”
I lift my chin, summoning every ounce of pride and certainty I possess. “It is.”
He moves then, not with the measured restraint of a powerful man meeting someone for the first time, but with the reckless abandon of a man seeing ghosts made flesh.
Before I can react, he enfolds me in an embrace so fierce it knocks the breath from my lungs.
I stiffen, not expecting this breach of formality, but his body shakes against mine, and I realize with a jolt that he’s crying.
“I never imagined,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “All these years… I never imagined you two were alive.”
He pulls back, keeping his hands on my shoulders as he drinks in my face. He turns to Chiara, embracing her with equal fervor before stepping back to address us both.
“Forgive me,” he says quietly. “I’m Ettore Greco. Your parents were my godparents. I was just a child when we heard about the massacre. Eight years old. I didn’t understand then what I’d lost—what we’d all lost.”
The revelation strikes me like a physical blow.
My parents’ godson.
A piece of them, living and breathing in this room. A connection I never knew existed.
One of the other men clears his throat. He’s ancient, perhaps eighty, with skin like crumpled parchment. “Ettore, let’s not overwhelm the young ladies before they’ve even had a chance to sit down.”
Ettore nods, gesturing to two empty chairs at the table’s other end. “Please,” he says. “Join us.”
As we take our seats, I study the men who may become our greatest allies—or our first obstacles.
Besides Ettore and the elderly patriarch, there’s a broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, a pair of brothers perhaps in their forties with identical scars running down their left cheeks, a slender man with wire-rimmed glasses who looks more like an accountant than a mobster, and a bulky figure missing his right ear.
The eldest speaks first, his voice surprisingly strong despite his years. “I am Lorenzo Venucci. I served your grandfather before your father was even born.”
He thumps his cane against the floor. “I never believed the rumors that Emilio’s daughters survived. Too dangerous to hope.” His rheumy eyes narrow, studying us. “But looking at you now—you have Sofia’s eyes. Both of you.”
“They do,” agrees the man with the glasses, leaning forward. “The exact same shade. I remember clear as yesterday, the way Sofia’s eyes flashed when she was angry.” He offers a tight smile. “Franco Rossi. Your father saved my life in ’92. A debt I never had the chance to repay—until now, perhaps.”
The twins nod in unison, an unsettling synchronicity. “We thought the DeLuca line was extinct,” says one, his voice like gravel. “We made our peace with the Bianchis because we had to survive.”
“But our true loyalty never wavered,” finishes the other.
Ettore retakes his seat at the head of the table, his eyes never leaving my face. “Your parents meant everything to me,” he says, the raw emotion still evident in his voice. “Your father taught me to fish. Your mother baked me birthday cakes with my name spelled out in candy.”
He swallows hard. “When they were taken from us, something broke in this city—a balance that has never been restored.”
“The Bianchis rule with fear,” says the bearded man missing an ear. “Your father ruled with respect. There’s a difference.”
“And yet you all survived under Bianchi rule,” I observe, my voice cool. “For twenty-five years.”
A tense silence falls. These men—these powerful, dangerous men—shift in their seats like chastised schoolboys.
“We had no choice,” says the man with the salt-and-pepper beard. “Salvatore Bianchi wiped out every family that openly opposed him after your father’s death. We survived by bending the knee.”
“But we never forgot,” Ettore adds fiercely. “We never forgot who we were—and who we still are. DeLucas’ men and trusted allies, through and through.”
I let my gaze travel from face to face, assessing the truth of their words. “Then why gather now? Why risk Salvatore’s wrath after all this time?”
“Because you’re alive,” Lorenzo Venucci says, his voice rising like thunder through the smoke-thick room. He slams his cane against the floor again, the sound sharp and final.
“Because the bloodline we thought extinguished now stands before us—flesh and fire, not myth. For twenty-five years, we survived under broken alliances, waiting for ghosts to walk through that door. And now you have. The daughters of Emilio have returned. The true heirs.” He leans forward, eyes glinting. “This doesn’t just change everything. It restarts everything.”
I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the table. “How do I know I can trust any of you? You might be Bianchi spies. You might run straight to Salvatore the moment we leave.”
“Aria,” Chiara murmurs beside me, a gentle warning to tread carefully.
The elderly Lorenzo barks out a laugh. “She has Emilio’s suspicion, too. Good. You’ll need it.”
Ettore rises again, moving to a painting on the wall—a seascape that seems innocuous enough. He swings it aside, revealing a safe. After entering a combination, he removes a yellowed envelope.
“Your father gave me this the week before he died,” Ettore says, placing the envelope before me with reverent care, as though it still burns with his touch. “He had… suspicions. Doubts about Salvatore that he couldn’t voice out loud. He feared a knife was coming.”
He hesitates, then meets my gaze, his voice rough with something deeper than grief—guilt, maybe. “He told me, if anything ever happened to him… I was to protect you. Both of you. With my life, if it came to that.”
A beat of silence passes, heavy as a verdict.
“He didn’t just entrust me with this envelope, Aria. He entrusted me with his blood. With his daughters. And I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for the moment I could finally keep that promise.”
With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. Inside is a single photograph—my father and Salvatore Bianchi, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at some shared joke. But it’s the back that steals my breath. Scrawled in a handwriting I don’t recognize—but somehow know is my father’s—are five words:
The snake closest to me.
“He knew,” I whisper, shock coursing through me. “He suspected Salvatore would betray him.”
“He did,” confirms Ettore. “But he couldn’t prove it. Salvatore was too careful, too close. And all his life, your father trusted him like a brother.”
The bearded man without an ear slams his fist on the table. “And that snake repaid his trust with bullets and blood. Ordered the hit himself—bragged about it later when he thought no one who cared was listening.”
My fingers dig into the photograph, creasing it. The image of Marco rises in my mind—the same green eyes as his father, the same strong jaw.
The same capacity for betrayal?
“So tell us,” says one of the twins. “Why have you summoned us? What do you want from the seven families?”
I set the photograph down carefully, collecting myself. “I want what’s rightfully ours. What was stolen from us.” I meet each man’s gaze in turn. “I want justice for our parents. I want the DeLuca name to mean something in this city again.”
The men exchange glances, measuring my resolve.
“And how do you propose to achieve this?” asks Franco, the one with the glasses. “Salvatore Bianchi holds power beyond anything we’ve faced. His son Marco has modernized their operations, made them nearly untouchable.”
The mention of Marco’s name sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. “Our eight families together are stronger than House Bianchi,” I state, my voice carrying an authority I didn’t know I possessed. “United under the DeLuca banner, we can reclaim what was taken from us.”
“Aria,” Chiara whispers urgently beside me. “Don’t do this. That really means starting a war against the Bianchis. It’s too reckless.”
I turn to her, seeing the fear in her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” I say quietly. “Even if I have to burn to ashes, I’ll face whatever comes.”
Returning my attention to the men, I continue. “I’m not doing this for power. I’m doing this for vengeance. For justice. For the truth to finally come to light after twenty-five years of darkness.”
“It won’t be easy,” says Lorenzo, the eldest. “The Bianchis have roots everywhere—police, politics, judiciary.”
“Nothing worth doing ever is,” I counter.
Ettore stands, raising his glass. “To the DeLuca heirs,” he declares. “To Aria and Chiara. May their father’s legacy live on through them.”
One by one, the other men rise, glasses lifted in solemn tribute. Even the most hesitant among them cannot resist the pull of old loyalties awakened.
“We pledge ourselves to House DeLuca,” says Ettore, his hazel eyes blazing. “Our resources, our men, our lives if necessary.” His gaze locks with mine. “Command us, and we will follow.”
The power of the moment washes over me like a wave—these men, these powerful figures in the criminal underworld, awaiting my direction. For a moment, I feel dizzy with the possibility of it all. Then I remember my purpose and feel myself harden.
“First,” I say, “we gather intelligence. I want to know everything about Salvatore Bianchi’s operation—every warehouse, every shipment, every dirty cop on his payroll.”
The men nod in approval.
“And second,” I continue, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “we send a message. To let them know the DeLucas have returned.”
The room falls silent, waiting for my next words. I feel Chiara tense beside me, but I cannot stop now. The momentum carries me forward.
“One name must be whispered through the streets,” I say, each word like ice from my lips. “Marco Bianchi. The son, raised by the man who butchered our family.”
The men exchange glances, understanding the implication. Lorenzo, the eldest, leans forward. “You speak of the son, not the father?”
“Salvatore will pay for what he did,” I assure him. “But Marco…” I pause, swallowing down the bitter taste of betrayal that rises in my throat. “Marco knew who I was. Knew every buried truth, every drop of my family’s blood—yet still took me as his wife.”
The room erupts in murmurs of outrage. Even in their world, with its flexible morality, some actions cross unforgivable lines.
“Then it will be as you wish,” says Ettore, his expression grave. “We will help you destroy Marco Bianchi.”
I nod, feeling something break and reform inside me—something harder, colder, more determined than before. The woman who left Marco’s house a week ago no longer exists. In her place stands Aria DeLuca, heir to a blood-soaked legacy.
“Good,” I say. “Because I will be the one to end him. None of you will so much as raise a finger in his direction. He’s mine.”
As the men raise their glasses again, I catch Chiara’s worried gaze. She sees what I’ve become. Perhaps she fears I’ll lose myself in this pursuit of vengeance.
Perhaps she’s right to worry.
But I’ve made my choice. There’s no room for mercy in my heart anymore, no space for the love I once felt for Marco Bianchi. There is only the cold certainty of what must be done.
He was raised by the man who butchered my family.
And I will be the one to end them all.
