Page 6 of Sins of the Father
Another six years passed before those words came true.
At eighteen, life split them apart. Bianca, armed with her inheritance and a taste for chaos, fled to Europe—Lisbon, Milan, Paris.
Her letters crackled with life:
“Stole champagne at a yacht party. Don’t ask.”
“Might join a traveling circus. Again, don’t ask.”
No one was coming for Mia. There was no home, no inheritance, nothing waiting beyond the convent walls. So, she stayed—what else could she do? She applied to stay on as ajunior teacher at St. Mary’s. The convent, rigid as it was, had become her world. The sisters were the only family she had, and while others her age chased freedom, Mia clung to routine. Stability. Safety.
Mia found purpose in helping the younger girls, the ones who cried at night or flinched at raised voices. She didn’t talk much about herself, but the girls loved her gentle presence. Her life was small, but steady.
Still, she kept every postcard Bianca sent. Folded them neatly. Reread them on hard days. Proof that somewhere, something still shimmered.
Another five years passed, and Mia lived in relative comfort. Then came the letter. Hand-delivered. Thick ivory paper. Her name, written in dark, elegant script, one she didn’t recognize. The envelope smelled of amaretto and gun oil. Mia’s fingers remembered before her mind did—the same cloying sweetness that clung to her father’s study. The paper slithered open like it had been waiting.
Somewhere in the garden, a nun called for vespers. The sound curved around her like a noose. Mia realized she’d stopped breathing when the edges of the letter began to tremble. Or maybe that was her hands. It was an official contract.
Bound in blood and duty.
Her father’s name signed at the bottom. Her thumbnail caught on the wax seal—a familiar crest: the silver snake from her father’s cufflink, now coiled around a dagger.
A marriage agreement. To a man she’d never met. A name she didn’t know.
Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought she might faint. The last line chilled her more than all the rest:“You were promised, Mia. And now, it’s time to honor that promise.”
Mia stared at the words, her pulse drumming in her ears. The paper in her hands felt suddenly heavy, as if it carried the weightof chains. For years, she’d built a quiet life behind convent walls. A life she had earned through silence and obedience. But this—this was theft. A decision made without her voice, her consent, her future considered.
She folded the letter slowly, deliberately, as if refusing to flinch gave her back some measure of control.
Promised.
She almost laughed. She had been many things in this life—forgotten, obedient, invisible—but she was nothisto give. Not anymore.
The past hadn’t forgotten her. But it was about to find she wasn’t the same girl it had left behind.
CHAPTER ONE
The heavy oak doors ofIl Dominio’sprivate dining room squeaked open, letting in a cold draft that smelled of firewood and old stone. This wasn’t just an exclusive spot. It was Valachi territory—decades of power carved into its walls. No staff. No guards. No distractions. Just five men who ran the American underworld: the Commission.
Low chandeliers cast long shadows over the round oak table at the center, hand-carved by Sicilian immigrants a century ago.
To Luc’s left sat Vittorio Carbone—bourbon-soaked, knuckle-scarred, running Gulf narcotics like a cartel general. He still collected debts in person. Across from him, Salvatore Marchetti fingered his rosary beads, silent but deadly. No one interrupted “The Ghost” twice.
Enzo Lombardi adjusted his cufflinks with a calm that had ruined judges. At the head sat Don Moretti; his leathery face bore the weight of Vegas’s Old Lion. Twelve men had tried to outlive him. All had failed.
Luc stayed silent. In this room, the first voice was often the weakest.
Finally, Carbone broke the quiet, voice low and rough. “Feds are circling Miami. Somebody’s flipping. My guy at the Bureau says they’re building a RICO case with teeth.”
Moretti clicked his tongue. “How bad?”
“Bad enough I can’t move a crate without eyes on it. Ports lit up. I need time to clean house.”
“That’s your problem, Vitto,” Lombardi said smoothly, swirling his scotch. “Don’t bring your fire to the rest of us.”
Carbone’s jaw tightened. “You think they stop at state lines? They get me; they come for all of us. I’m just first.”
