THE MAFIA KING'S SECRET BRIDE

I didn't speak during the drive to the Moretti estate.

There was too much in my head.

My mother might not have died when I thought she did.

My father had hidden something from me.

Matteo had known.

Lucian had known pieces of it.

And somehow, I had been part of the story since I was a child.

When the gates opened, I looked at the enormous house beyond them.

“You live here?”

“Yes.”

“It looks like a museum.”

“That's because most of the people who live here are afraid to throw anything away.”

I looked at him.

It was the first joke I'd heard from him.

He wasn't smiling.

But I almost did.

Inside, an older woman waited for us.

She wore a cream suit and held a glass of water she hadn't touched.

Her eyes went straight to me.

“Amara Vale.”

“Vivian Moretti.”

She extended her hand.

I shook it.

Her fingers were cold.

“I knew your father.”

“So I've been told.”

A faint smile touched her lips.

“Your father was a complicated man.”

“He's becoming more complicated every hour.”

Vivian looked at Lucian.

“You brought her here.”

“She wasn't safe.”

“Neither are we.”

Lucian's expression hardened.

“What happened?”

Vivian glanced at me.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

She sighed.

“The east corridor camera stopped working.”

“Since when?”

“An hour ago.”

Lucian turned to one of the guards.

“Find out why.”

The guard left.

Vivian looked at me again.

“You should rest.”

“I have questions.”

“So did your father.”

“Did you answer his?”

Her smile disappeared.

“Not all of them.”

She walked away.

I watched her go.

“You trust her?” I asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

Lucian looked at me.

“You're learning quickly.”

I didn't know whether that was a compliment.

He showed me to a guest room.

Before leaving, he stopped at the door.

“Don't go into the west wing.”

“Why?”

“It's closed.”

“That isn't a reason.”

“It is the only one you're getting.”

He left.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared.

Then I opened the door again.

I wasn't going to the west wing.

I was going to the library.

My father's files had mentioned Matteo repeatedly.

If the Moretti family had kept records, I wanted to see them.

The library was enormous.

I searched the shelves until I found an old photograph album.

Matteo appeared in nearly every picture.

He was younger than I expected.

Laughing.

Arguing.

Playing football with Lucian.

He looked nothing like the frightening stories I'd heard.

A photograph slipped from the album.

I caught it.

My father stood beside Matteo.

On the back was a date.

October 15, 2004.

My birthday.

I stared at the picture.

A little girl stood between them.

Me.

Someone had written something underneath.

She knows.

I heard footsteps behind me.

Vivian.

She stopped when she saw the photograph.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the album.”

“You shouldn't have opened it.”

“Why?”

She walked toward me.

“Because Matteo kept things he shouldn't have.”

“What did he know about me?”

Vivian's face tightened.

“Your father asked us to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From the truth.”

I stepped closer.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because the truth is dangerous.”

“No. Secrets are dangerous.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then said quietly:

“Your father wasn't the man you thought he was.”

I felt something inside me sink.

“He lied to me.”

“Yes.”

“About my mother?”

“Yes.”

“About Matteo?”

Vivian hesitated.

“Yes.”

Before I could ask more, Lucian entered.

His eyes moved from Vivian to the photograph.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing she didn't already suspect.”

He looked at me.

“What happened?”

I held up the photograph.

“October 15.”

His expression changed.

“Where did you get that?”

“Your library.”

He took it.

For several seconds, he stared at the image.

Then he turned it over.

His thumb stopped on the writing.

“She knows.”

“What does that mean?”

Lucian didn't answer.

A guard rushed into the room.

“Sir.”

Lucian looked at him.

“The west-wing alarm has been triggered.”

His attention immediately shifted.

“Anyone inside?”

“We don't know.”

He started walking.

I followed.

“Amara, stay here.”

“No.”

He stopped.

“This isn't a game.”

“I know.”

“Then stay here.”

I looked at the photograph.

“Someone has been hiding my life from me for twenty-two years.”

I met his eyes.

“I'm done staying where people tell me to stay.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he continued walking.

I followed.

The west-wing door was open.

Inside, the air smelled of dust.

A bedroom had been searched.

Drawers were open.

Books lay scattered.

Lucian crossed to the desk.

He pulled open the last drawer.

Empty.

“Someone took something,” I said.

He nodded.

“What?”

He looked at me.

“My brother's journal.”