Page 2 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
Shivers run up my neck, my body betraying me in the presence of such danger.
I turn on my heel and walk back to the funeral, my legs shaking with every step.
The rain has stopped by the time the funeral ends, but the weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. It presses down with the force of a thousand storms as I stand near the gravesite, clutching my coat around me like armor against the cold.
My mother lingers by the casket, her shivering fingers brushing the damp wood as if she can somehow hold onto him. Sofia stays close, speaking softly to her. I don’t move. I don’t trust myself to. If I stay too long, I’ll crack wide open, and I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
“Valentina,” Sofia calls gently, her voice cutting through the fog in my head.
I blink and look up. My mother is leaning heavily on Sofia’s arm, her pale face turned toward me. She looks fragile, like the slightest breeze could carry her away.
I force a smile, brittle and thin, and step forward to help. Together, Sofia and I guide her to the car, each step slow and careful. She doesn’t say a word as we settle her into the back seat. She just stares ahead, her eyes dull and distant.
“I’ll take care of her tonight,” Sofia whispers as we shut the door. “She needs rest. So do you.”
I nod, grateful for her, and watch as they drive away. The car disappears around the corner, leaving me alone in the empty cemetery. Then, a heavy silence wraps around me.
By the time I reach my apartment above the gallery, twilight has fallen, washing the city in amber and indigo. The air is crisp, tinged with the scent of rain-soaked pavement. For a moment, I stop to take it in. My apartment is small, a modest space that smells of paint and coffee, but it’s mine. Every corner of it, everypiece of furniture and fleck of chipped plaster, speaks to the life I’ve built from nothing.
It’s my sanctuary.
Or so I think—until I see the door.
It’sopen.
The faintest crack, but enough to send my heart plummeting. My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat as I stare at it, unmoving. Did I forget to lock it? No. I always lock it.Always.
Shallow, sharp air fills my lungs as I push the door open wider. The hinges creak, the sound too loud in the eerie silence.
The living room comes into view, dimly lit by the lamp I left on this morning. At first glance, nothing seems out of place. The shelves are still lined with books, the couch still draped in the throw blanket I tossed there last night. But then I see him, as perfectly composed and infuriatingly beautiful as before.
It should be criminal, how he makes my heart flutter and drop at the same time.
He’s sitting on my couch as if he lives here, like it’s the most natural thing he has ever done, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar lazily balanced between his fingers. Smoke curls upward in lazy spirals, filling the narrow space between us with tobacco-scented anticipation.
I gulp a fistful of air.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice low and velvet-smooth. His eyes find mine, dark and unreadable, and he smiles. It’s not a kind smile.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The words tumble out before I can think, my voice quivering despite my best efforts to appear composed.
Luca Salvatore leans back, exhaling a stream of smoke that makes my eyes sting. “You left the funeral so abruptly. I thought we should talk.”
2
LUCA
Afew hours ago
It’s incredibly early, but the whiskey is flowing.
My leather chair creaks as I lean back, fingers steepled under my chin. The room is dim. A faint aftertaste of tobacco lingers from a cigar I set aside a while ago. My private study is all dark wood and muted light, walls lined with shelves of books no one expects me to have read. A large mahogany desk dominates the space, cluttered with papers, maps, and a tablet streaming live security feeds from the city.
Nuova Speranzasprawls before me in shades of gray on the screen, a labyrinth of power and corruption, every shadow hiding another secret.Mycity. A king rules his kingdom, not for glory, but for control. And control is everything.
“Luca,” Marco says, his voice pulling me back.
I glance at him from beneath my lashes. My younger brother, leaner than me, sits across the desk. He’s nursing a tumbler of whiskey, his tie slightly loosened, his expression marked with the same fire I’ve seen in him since we were boys. “The chief is bleeding us dry,” Marco continues, sliding a report across thedesk. “He’s stolen half a million meant for the food programs in the East Side alone. And that’s just the tip of it.”
