Chapter 5

~~~Luca's POV~~~

The knock comes at midnight.

I don't look up from my desk. Papers spread everywhere. Contracts. Ledgers. Names of men who owe me money and men who owe me blood. I have been staring at the same page for over an hour, seeing nothing.

My mind is still back in that shabby house. Anne's blood on the floor. The gun in her hand. The look in her eyes when she pulls the trigger.

She'd rather die than be with me.

"Come in."

Marco enters. I know it is him before he speaks. The way he walks. The way he breathes. I have known the man for fifteen years. He is my shadow. My sword. My one loyalty I never question.

But tonight, his face is careful and empty. Just the way he looks when he doesn't want me to read him.

"Boss." He holds out a plain envelope with no return address or name. Just cream-colored paper and the weight of something inside. "This was left at the gate."

I set down my pen. "By who?"

"No cameras caught it. The men were watching every angle, but nothing."

I turn the envelope over in my hands. Someone knows where I live. Someone knows how to avoid my security. That takes money. Connections. Balls.

"Who else knows I found her?"

Marco hesitates. "Everyone, Boss. Word travels."

Lucinda. My father. Monic. Half the criminal underworld probably has a bet on how long before I snap.

I wave my hand. "Leave."

Marco nods. Disappears into the hallway. The door clicks shut.

I sit there for a long moment, holding the envelope. The house is silent. The city is silent. My heart is not.

What did you do, Anne? Who did you make angry enough to send me secrets in the dark?

I open it.

A single sheet of paper slides out. Then a photograph. Then a small folded note.

I read the confession first.

"I, Anne Mancini, also known as Lia Perry, confess to stealing confidential documents from Don Luca Romani on the night of August 15, six years ago. I acted alone. I sold the information to unknown parties for financial gain. I never loved him. I accept full responsibility for my actions."

Below it, her signature.

Shaky. Almost illegible. But hers.

I know her handwriting. I have watched her write grocery lists on torn scraps of paper. Love letters she used to slide under my door. Little notes she left on my pillow when I was away too long. Miss you. Come find me. Last night was perfect.

This is her hand. Shaking. Scared. Broken.

She never loved me.

The words burn. I read them again. I never loved him. She said it to my face in that shabby house, blood dripping down her arm, gun pressed to her temple, her eyes wild and desperate. I wanted to believe she was lying. I wanted to grab her and shake her until the truth fell out.

Now I have proof. Black and white. Signed and delivered.

I set the confession down. Pick up the photograph.

My blood goes cold.

Anne. Tied to a chair. Basement walls—concrete, damp, a single bulb hanging overhead. Her arm is bandaged. Her lip is split. Her cheek is bruised purple and yellow. She has been hit. More than once.

And her eyes—

Her eyes are terrified.

Not the fear of someone who got caught. Not the shame of someone who knows they are guilty. This is something else. Something deeper. Something that makes my chest tighten and my hands curl into fists.

Someone hurt her. Someone made her sign this.

I stare at the photograph. My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might crack.

She looked at me that night with the same fear. The same desperate, broken, animal fear. I thought it was because of me. Because I killed a man in front of her. Because she was guilty and scared of what I would do.

Now I am not so sure.

What if she was scared of someone else? What if she has been scared this whole time?

I push the thought away. I cannot afford to think like that. Not yet.

I pick up the note.

Block letters. Careful. Anonymous. Written with a pen that could come from any store in any city.

"She confessed. Now you know the truth. The maid was never yours. Do with her what you will."

The maid was never yours.

I read it three times. My rage does not spike. It settles. Cold and heavy in my chest. The kind of cold that freezes blood. The kind of heavy that crushes bones.

Someone is playing games. Someone wants Anne destroyed. Someone wants me to be the one to do it.

Lucinda.

The name surfaces before I can stop it. My stepmother. The woman who married my father for money and power. The woman who looks at me like I am an obstacle between her son and the throne.

She has been circling like a vulture for weeks. Ever since she found out Anne is alive. She wants Anne gone. She wants me married to Monic. She wants her son, my stepbrother, to have what I have earned.

This helps Lucinda. A confession. A reason to hate Anne. A reason to push me toward Monic.

But Lucinda does not work alone. She never gets her hands dirty. She uses people. Middlemen. Deniable hands. People who can be discarded if things go wrong.

Someone else took that photograph. Someone else tied Anne to that chair in that basement. Someone else made her sign.

I want that someone's head on a platter.

---

I call Marco back in.

He stands by the door, waiting. He knows better than to speak first.

"Whoever delivered this." I tap the envelope. "Find them. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care what it costs. I want a name."

He nods. Does not ask why. He knows me too well to ask.

"And the woman?"

I look at the photograph again. Her eyes. Her bruises. Her fear. I cannot stop looking at it.

"Watch her. Don't touch her. Don't let her see you. Just watch. I want to know everywhere she goes. Everyone she talks to. Every breath she takes."

Marco's eyebrows rise a fraction. He is not used to hesitation from me. Neither am I.

"And if she tries to leave?" he asks.

I think about the train station. The airport. The borders. The way she ran once, disappeared for six years, made me think she was dead.

She will try again. I know it.

"Then you stop her. And you call me. Don't let her out of your sight."

Marco nods. Turns to leave.

"Marco."

He pauses.

"Whoever did this to her—" I tap the photograph. "I want them found too."

He leaves. The door clicks shut.

I am alone again.

---

The confession sits on my desk. The photograph sits beside it. The note sits on top.

The maid was never yours.

She was never mine. Maybe that is true. Maybe she used me. Maybe she lied about everything—every smile, every kiss, every whispered promise in the dark.

But someone hurt her. Someone tied her to a chair and beat her until she signed.

And that someone is going to pay.

I pick up my phone. Scroll to a number I saved months ago, back when I was still searching for her. The owner of The Velvet Room. A man named Tony who owes me favors he does not even know about.

I do not ask. I tell.

"This is Luca Romani. There is a woman working for you. Anne Mancini. She might be using a different name. Lia Perry. She is done by morning. If I see her there again, I will burn your club to the ground with you inside it."

A stammered reply. I do not listen. I hang up.

She will lose her job. Her income. Her place to hide.

It is not ruin. Not yet. Not even close. I promised to destroy every part of her life, and getting her fired from some dirty club is just the first domino.

But as I set the phone down, I do not feel satisfied.

I feel hollow.

Why doesn't it feel good?

I walk to the window. Stare out at the city. Lights flicker in the distance. Cars move like blood through veins. Somewhere out there, Anne is sleeping—or trying to.

Somewhere out there, the person who sent me that envelope is watching. Waiting. Seeing what I will do.

I look at the confession one more time.

I never loved him.

Then I look at the photograph.

Her eyes.

Someone hurt her.

I fold the confession. Tuck it into my pocket. Leave the photograph on the desk.

I have a choice to make.

Destroy her. Or save her.

I do not know which one I will choose.

But I know one thing for certain.

Whoever sent that envelope made a mistake.

They gave me a reason to look closer.

And when I find the truth...

When I find the truth, someone is going to bleed for it.