Page 61 of Dario DeLuca

Grounding myself, I pass her the file folder, its contents a sobering weight in her delicate hands. Confusion furrows her brow as she glances my way, though she says nothing. With trembling fingers, she peels open the cover and recoils almost imperceptibly.

Pictures, dozens of them, spill free—snapshots chronicling her every mundane movement. Coffee shop visits, girls' nights with Gabby, filming sessions in her content studio, and family gatherings. All suffused with the creeping dread of being watched and hunted like prey. Her chest rises and falls in shallow pants as the violation becomes more severe.

"When did you get all of this?" she asks at last, panic fraying the edges of her words. Her gaze remains fixed on the damning photographs.

"The pictures I got on the day your father asked for my help," I admit, studying her reaction closely. “But everything else, Rafael found just before we boarded the plane for Carmela’s wedding.”

"But I've only seen this one and the one from the other night." Her head shakes minutely, fingers trembling as they rifle through the disturbing images. "Why keep them from me?" For the briefest second, anger clouds her delicate features. "Whoever this person is has clearly been watching me for a long time. You should have told me."

The ragged edge of vulnerability in her voice twists like a blade in my gut. In my arrogant desire to shield her from harm, I've only compounded her suffering.

"I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong."

Mia freezes after flipping over one image after another, seeing the crest on each. But then the color drains from her face as her eyes catch on the newspaper clipping.

‘Local businessman and mayor to repurpose burned-down crime warehouse of the Pesci family.’

Underneath that heading is a picture of her father, Gabby's father, the police chief, and my father, Carmine—the incendiary revelation of our fathers' sordid roles in that long-buried tragedy.

"My community center…" she whispers, horror and sickening realization warring on her features. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Her question hangs between us, laden with dread. I force myself to hold her gaze, the visible fear in those expressive eyes breaking through my emotional defenses.

"There's a reason he chose to attack the community center that night," I say each word with a leaden weight on my tongue.

"I don't understand," she starts.

"He had everyone in one place—the mayor, the police chief…and the DeLucas."

Her brow furrows, lips parting in dismay as comprehension begins to dawn.

"He blames our fathers for what happened to his family, and now he wants revenge."

"Who is he?" The rawness of her voice slices through me.

I regard her for a protracted moment, hesitating to shatter what remains of her illusions.

"We don't know," I admit, the words like ash on my tongue. "All we're sure about is it all started because of your community center. That building used to belong to one of Chicago’s biggest families?—"

"A Mafia family." The bite of accusation in her tone stings, shattering the fragile trust bridging the chasm between us.

I incline my head, jaw tightening. "Yes. The Pesci family. They were our rivals for years, and one day, their headquarters burned to the ground, along with every member of their group."

The sharp inhalation of her gasp slices the strained silence. "Everyone?"

One clipped nod is all I can offer, the truth, a weight in the pit of my stomach. "Men, women…and children."

"Oh my god…" She recoils, hands splaying across her torso as if warding off a physical blow. "Our fathers killed them? My father killed them?"

I shake my head, struggling against the virulent surge of self-loathing. "No. I’m sure that was all my father’s doing. But Marcus and Chief Harris might as well have allowed it to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“They turned a blind eye for profit and power..."

Her brow furrows as she processes this grim revelation. "Are you saying they were corrupt? That they covered up a massacre for money?"

I meet her accusatory glare with an impassive mask.

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