THE MAFIA KING'S SECRET BRIDE

My father was buried with a lie.

I didn't know that when they lowered his coffin into the ground.

All I knew was that the rain had soaked through my black dress, my shoes were sinking into the soft earth, and everyone around me seemed to have a rehearsed sentence ready for death.

"Your father was a good man."

"He'll be missed."

"Be strong, Amara."

I nodded whenever someone spoke.

I had learned that was easier than trying to explain that I didn't know how to be strong.

My father's coffin disappeared beneath the earth.

Something inside me went with it.

I stared at the grave long after the priest finished speaking. My hands were cold, but I didn't notice until I saw them trembling.

My father had been dead for three days.

Three days, and I still expected him to call.

He had always called.

Even when he was angry with me.

Especially when he was angry with me.

I reached into my handbag and touched the envelope I'd found that morning.

My name was written on it.

Amara.

I hadn't opened it.

Not yet.

I wasn't ready to hear another piece of his voice, even if it was only ink on paper.

A car door slammed behind me.

I looked toward the cemetery entrance.

A black sedan had stopped there.

A man stepped out.

He didn't hurry.

He walked toward me through the rain without an umbrella, his dark suit untouched by the nervous movements of the people around him.

I knew his face.

Everyone did.

Lucian Moretti.

Matteo Moretti's younger brother.

The Morettis weren't the sort of family people discussed loudly. Their name appeared in newspapers occasionally, but the stories were always vague-business disputes, investigations that disappeared, people who suddenly stopped talking.

Matteo had died six years earlier.

Lucian had taken his place afterward.

He stopped in front of me.

"My condolences."

I nodded.

"Thank you."

His eyes moved briefly toward my father's grave.

Then back to me.

"Your father left a debt."

My grief hardened into anger.

"He didn't owe you anything."

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

Lucian studied me.

Not my clothes.

Not the people behind me.

Me.

It made me uncomfortable.

"You have forty-eight hours," he said.

"For what?"

"To settle it."

"And if I don't?"

His expression didn't change.

"You'll come with me."

I stared at him.

"You came to my father's funeral to threaten me?"

"No."

His voice was quiet.

"I came because he asked me to find you if anything happened to him."

My anger faltered.

"My father contacted you?"

"Not recently."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He looked at the grave.

"Because he made me promise."

Before I could ask another question, he turned away.

"Wait."

He stopped.

"What exactly did my father owe you?"

Lucian looked back.

"Not money."

Then he walked away.

I watched him leave.

The answer should have frightened me.

Instead, it made me angry.

When the last mourner disappeared, I finally opened the envelope.

A photograph slid into my hand.

I stared at it.

My father was younger.

Beside him stood a man I recognized immediately.

Matteo Moretti.

And between them was a little girl.

I almost dropped the photograph.

The girl had two uneven braids, a yellow dress and a missing front tooth.

She was me.

I turned the photograph over.

Four words were written on the back.

You were there.

My breathing became shallow.

There was something else inside the envelope.

A small brass key.

Number 17 was engraved across its surface.

I closed my hand around it.

A memory surfaced.

My father's study.

A locked drawer.

He had always kept one drawer closed and told me never to touch it.

I had never asked why.

Now I wished I had.

I drove home without remembering most of the journey.

The house felt wrong.

My father's shoes were still beside the door.

His reading glasses sat on the table.

His unfinished book remained open in his chair.

Everything was exactly where he had left it.

Except now there was no him.

I walked into his study.

The drawer was locked.

I tried the brass key.

It opened.

Inside was a black flash drive and another note.

My father's handwriting.

If you're reading this, I failed to keep you out of it.

I sat down.

Below that were three words.

Trust no one.

My phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

I opened the message.

Put the photograph back.

Another message arrived.

You were never supposed to remember.

I froze.

Remember what?

A sound came from downstairs.

The front door opened.

I stood.

"Hello?"

No answer.

Footsteps moved through the hallway.

Slow.

Measured.

Someone was inside my house.

I grabbed the flash drive and backed toward the study door.

The footsteps stopped.

Then came three knocks.

I didn't breathe.

A familiar voice spoke from the other side.

"Amara."

Lucian.

I opened the door a fraction.

He stood there, rain on his shoulders.

"How did you get inside?"

His gaze dropped to the flash drive in my hand.

For the first time, something broke through his calm expression.

Fear.

"Where did you get that?"

I tightened my grip.

"My father left it."

Lucian looked past me into the study.

Then at the photograph.

"Amara," he said quietly, "we need to leave."

"Why?"

His eyes met mine.

"Because someone else is already looking for what your father hid."