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."

I didn't leave with Lucian.
Not immediately.
I stood in the doorway of my father's study, blocking his view of the desk.
"You said I had forty-eight hours."
"I did."
"Now you're telling me to leave my house."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because someone entered this house while you were at the cemetery."
I glanced toward the hallway.
"You saw them?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
Lucian's jaw tightened.
"The lock on the back door was broken."
I hadn't noticed.
That scared me more than I wanted him to see.
I stepped back into the study.
"What was my father hiding?"
"I don't know."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to understand that I don't know everything."
That answer sounded different from the usual evasions I'd heard since my father's death.
Almost honest.
I picked up the photograph.
"My father knew Matteo."
Lucian's eyes settled on it.
"Yes."
"How?"
"He helped him."
"With what?"
Lucian didn't answer.
I moved closer.
"You knew my father."
"Yes."
"Did he trust you?"
A pause.
"More than he should have."
That wasn't the answer I expected.
Before I could press him, my phone vibrated.
Another unknown number.
Look under the floorboard beneath your father's desk.
I stared at the message.
Lucian noticed.
"What did they say?"
I showed him.
He immediately moved toward the desk.
"Wait."
He stopped.
"Why?"
"Because if someone is telling me where to look, maybe they want me to find something."
"Exactly."
I crouched beside the desk.
One floorboard looked slightly raised.
Lucian knelt beside me.
"Don't."
I looked at him.
"I can do it myself."
"I know."
He stood.
I lifted the board.
Nothing.
Only dust.
I laughed under my breath.
"Someone is playing games."
"Maybe."
I replaced the board.
Then I noticed something carved into the underside.
A number.
17.
The same number as the brass key.
I looked at Lucian.
He understood immediately.
"Your father didn't leave you the key by accident."
"Then where does it lead?"
"I know a place."
I stared at him.
"You're coming with me?"
"I don't think you should go alone."
"That's not an answer."
"No."
He walked toward the door.
"You shouldn't go alone."
I followed him because I wanted answers, not because I trusted him.
The place was an old storage building on the edge of the city.
There were seventeen numbered units inside.
Lucian unlocked number 17.
I stepped inside.
Dust covered the shelves.
Boxes filled the room.
My father's handwriting appeared on one.
A.V.
My initials.
I opened it.
Inside were childhood photographs.
School certificates.
A bracelet.
A faded yellow dress.
I touched the dress.
Something inside my chest tightened.
I remembered wearing it.
Not where.
Just the feeling of being held.
A man's voice laughing.
A woman's hand brushing my hair.
Then the memory disappeared.
Lucian watched me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I was remembering."
He didn't ask what.
Instead, he opened another box.
Inside was a newspaper clipping.
MATTEO MORETTI DEAD AT 21.
Beneath it was a handwritten sentence.
He didn't die because of the business.
I looked at Lucian.
"Did you write this?"
"No."
He picked up another paper.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He handed it to me.
It was a letter from my father.
Lucian,
If Matteo dies, don't let Amara near the Moretti family. She cannot know what happened that night.
My eyes moved to the next line.
She will remember eventually.
I looked up.
"What happened that night?"
Lucian stared at the letter.
"I don't know."
"You were there."
"I was eighteen."
"You remember nothing?"
"I remember a fire."
He looked at me.
"And I remember finding you."
My skin prickled.
"Where?"
"Outside a hospital."
I stared at him.
"What hospital?"
He didn't answer.
A noise came from outside.
Lucian immediately turned toward the door.
Someone had entered the building.
He motioned for me to stay quiet.
Footsteps approached.
Then stopped outside unit seventeen.
A shadow appeared beneath the door.
I held my breath.
The handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Then the person walked away.
Lucian waited.
After several seconds, he opened the door.
Nobody was there.
Only a small envelope lay on the floor.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
My father.
Matteo.
And me.
But this time, there was another person in the photograph.
A woman.
My mother.
I stared at her face.
I barely remembered it.
On the back, someone had written:
Ask your father why he said she was dead.
I looked at Lucian.
He had gone completely still.
"My mother died when I was six."
"I know."
"Then why is she standing beside my father in this photograph?"
Lucian looked at the date.
His face changed.
"This photograph was taken after her reported death."

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.”