Chapter 13

Emilia sat up slowly, the sheets falling to her waist. Her pulse was erratic, and her tongue felt dry against the roof of her mouth. Luca’s gaze was cutting into her, intense and unrelenting. His jaw was tight, brows low, eyes narrowed like he was trying to burn the truth out of her with nothing but a look.

She swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped.”

“No, no, no. Don’t start that shit.” He pointed at her, voice quiet but hard. “You said Mama. And I heard it clear.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest. Her voice came smaller than she liked.

“You call her noona ‘Noona Peppi.”

Luca blinked.

“Noona Peppi?” He sat up straighter. “You’re telling me that Noona is your mother?”

Emilia nodded slowly. “She told me everything. That she left me when I was a baby to keep me safe. Said she practically raised you.”

Luca stood up from the bed, pacing. “She did raise me. After my mother died, she was always around. But she never told me she had a kid—let alone you.”

He stopped, rubbing his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I need you to tell me the truth now,” Emilia said, her voice sharpening. “Why was she in your house? Working for you?”

Luca sat at the edge of the bed, his voice a low rasp.

“She isn’t working for me. She was with my father. She was his... lover, near the end. But before that, she was someone else entirely. I never saw her as an employee she’s my Noona. She raised me.”

Emilia’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“She ran from her family. All I ever knew was that she was the wife of another boss—a big one. Southern Italy. Ruthless bastard. My father had been her lover for years  even before she eventually left. I always figured there was something she was hiding. But I never thought it had anything to do with you.”

Emilia felt like the air had been punched out of her lungs.

“She lied”

Luca looked at her, eyes dark. “That’s the world we live in, Emilia. Everyone’s running from something. Or someone.”

She stared at him, lips parted, the weight of the past collapsing onto her chest like bricks.

“So what happens now?”

Luca reached out, thumb brushing her cheek. “Now? We stop letting ghosts fuck with us. And we deal with what’s right in front of us.”

Emilia nodded slowly, then asked, quieter this time:                  “So what are we letting fuck us” blushing right after the words rolled out her mouth

“Right now I just want to fuck you, but before we move on. You’re a mafia’s daughter………who was your father?”

“Don Nicolàs Moretti Terzo del Casato di Moretti” she responded 

The glass slipped from Luca’s hand, landing on the rug with a dull thud. Scotch splashed over the edges, forgotten.

He turned slowly, his eyes wide.

“Nicolàs Moretti Terzo?”

She nodded once.

He let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “That old bastard is your father? Holy—” He paced for a moment, hand in his hair. “Emilia, I’ve had dinner with him. He still sends me cigars from Palermo every December.”

Her head lowered.

“I had no idea he had a daughter,” Luca muttered. “He never—wait. Your brother. He’s... Nicolò, isn’t he? Nicolò Moretti.”

Another nod.

“I still talk to him,” Luca said, voice softening in realization. “He’s one of my contacts in Milan. Keeps things moving quiet. Wait, you—you haven’t—”

Emilia looked up, eyes glassy. “I haven’t spoken to Nicolò since I was seven.”

Luca fell silent.

“and what do you mean you had dinner with my papa. He is dead Luca.”

“No he isn’t baby” he whipped out his phone and showed her a picture taken last December of himself, her father and brother.

“I never saw him after Adriana died,” she said, her voice cracking on the name. “She was the glue. When she was gone... everything just... shattered. Mama disappeared. Papa stopped looking at me. Nicolò went away. And I was just... left.”

The fireplace crackled. Luca took a step toward her but stopped short. Emilia’s fingers twisted in her lap.

“I thought maybe he was dead,” she whispered. “ And now you tell me Nicolò’s still out there. Talking to you. Living. And he never once came for me.”

Luca crouched beside her, placing a hand on her knee. “He probably thought you were gone too. They kept you hidden, Emilia. For a reason. I’m sure they did.”

No they didn’t. None of them did………I know for sure they’re in contact with Isadora, and that’s what hurts the most.”

A silence fell, thick and suffocating. Outside, the rain hit harder.

Luca’s voice dropped low. “Do you want to see him?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m not ready to face the kind of family that lets you disappear.”

Emilia’s tossing in her sleep………

Laughter.

That was the last thing she remembered before it all shattered.

Adriana’s voice, soft and warm like late summer sun:

“Stay close, piccolina.”

The park was golden—leaves rustling, birds cooing, children chasing soccer balls. Emilia, just seven, swung her legs from the bench, biting into a lemon gelato. Adriana, her older sister, sat beside her in a sundress, dark hair loose, head tilted back in laughter.

Then—

Crack.

A sound like glass breaking underwater.

Adriana jerked.

Her smile faded instantly, and her body slumped sideways. Emilia stared in slow motion as the blood painted her shoulder, then her cheek, and then the pavement.

There was no time to scream.

A man in a dark coat ran past. Two more gunshots rang out. Everyone screamed—except Emilia. She just stared, frozen, the gelato dripping onto her knees.

Adriana’s eyes were open. But she wasn’t there anymore.

Emilia shot up with a gasp, lungs barely filling with air. Her hands were shaking, drenched in sweat. Her heart pounded as if the gunshot had echoed through the room.

Beside her, Luca stirred.

“Emilia?” he mumbled, groggy. “What is it?”

She said nothing. Just pressed her palm to her chest and stared at the dark.

“I saw her,” she whispered. “Adriana. The way she died. It was the park. I was there. I watched them shoot her. I remember it now.”

Luca turned to face her fully, reaching out, but she flinched.

My father left me,” she continued, voice distant. “My mother disappeared. My brother vanished. My own twin left me too.They all had power, money, connections—and they still let me rot.”

She looked at her hands like she didn’t recognize them.

“I was a child. I was innocent. And still… they abandoned me.”

The silence in the room grew heavy.

“But I’m not that girl anymore,” she said, voice lower now. “Not the forgotten daughter. Not the scared sister.”

Luca narrowed his eyes, watching the storm build behind hers.

“You’re different,” he said softly.

Emilia turned to him slowly, and her eyes—once soft with grief—were now sharp like glass.

“I remember everything now. Who I am. Who they are. And what this world took from me.”

Her voice held no tremor, no hesitation.

“They made a mistake leaving me……..alive.”

Luca smiled—not out of joy, but recognition.

“There she is.”

Later that week….

The scent of aged tobacco and espresso clung to the air like ghosts. The living area was quiet but charged, as if the walls were waiting for something to explode.

Emilia padded down the hallway barefoot, Luca’s shirt loose around her, hair still damp from a late shower. She heard voices—low, male, familiar but… foreign.

She slowed her steps.

Luca’s voice: “She doesn’t know yet. I didn’t want to warn her. She’d run.”

Another voice—slightly deeper, crisp, precise Italian accent woven through smooth English:

“Then you better be ready to catch her when she falls.”

She rounded the corner.

And stopped.

There, in the middle of the room, stood a man with sharp cheekbones, sun-burnished skin, and the kind of quiet, watchful presence that made her stomach twist. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark suit with no tie—casual power. His back was half-turned, holding a tumbler of scotch, but she saw the curve of his jaw.

Something in her soul paused.

He turned.

And his breath caught.

“Isadora?”

She blinked.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not Isadora.”

His face twitched. The name tasted like a scar in the air.

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“Then… who—?”

“It’s me,” she said, voice suddenly raw. “Emilia.”

He froze. The glass in his hand trembled but didn’t fall.

Silence swallowed the room.

“Emilia...” Nicolò whispered, like he was trying to convince himself she was real.

Her eyes shone, but they didn’t cry.

“You didn’t come for me,” she said. “Not when Adriana died. Not when Papa buried me in silence. You disappeared. You all did.”

“I was seventeen,” he said, stepping closer, stunned. “They sent me away after Adriana’s funeral. Said it wasn’t safe. Said—said you were gone.”

“And you never asked?” she snapped, voice rising. “You never looked?”

He flinched.

“I mourned you,” Nicolò said, his voice cracking. “Every birthday. Every fucking year. I thought you were dead.”

Luca stepped back, watching them carefully but silent. He knew now wasn’t his moment.

Emilia’s arms folded across her chest like a shield. “Well, I’m not. I’m very much alive. And I remember everything now.”

She looked between the two men—Luca, the weapon that held her heart in chaos, and Nicolò, the ghost from her blood.

“So,” she said, the cold returning to her tone. “What happens now?”

Nicolò took a breath, soft and broken. “Now… I make up for the years I failed you.”

Her lips curled—half-skeptical, half sad.

“We’ll see.”

The storm had passed, but the air still buzzed with something electric.

Nicolò stood at the window, watching shadows move along the garden path. Luca poured two fingers of bourbon, offering one. Nicolò took it, barely sipping.

They didn’t speak for a while.

“She’s changed,” Nicolò said finally, voice low. “Harder than I remember. Angrier.”

“She thought you were dead,” Luca replied, sitting across from him. “Or worse—didn’t care.”

“I don’t blame her,” Nicolò admitted. “If I’d known she was alive... I would’ve burned every family connection to bring her home.”

Luca raised an eyebrow. “And yet you didn’t.”

Nicolò exhaled sharply. “I wasn’t lying. They locked me out after Adriana’s murder. Sent me to Milan, stripped me of contact. Father said if I asked about Emilia again, he’d make sure I joined Adriana in the dirt.”

Luca studied him. “And now?”

“I’m not here just because of Emilia.”

Luca’s jaw twitched. “Figured.”

Nicolò set the glass down. “It’s Isadora. You said you’ve seen her recently .”

Luca stiffened.

“Yes”

“She’s alive,” Lucaquieter now. “But she’s not free. She’s with Dimitri Volkov.”

Nicolo blinked slowly, processing.

“Volkov,” he muttered. “That bastard’s still collecting people like chess pieces.”

Nicolò’s mouth parted slightly, but no sound came. His jaw tightened.

“She was dressed in blue,” Luca went on. “Like a ghost. Pale, poised, silent. Volkov paraded her like a trophy, but there was something in her eyes—she wasn’t gone. Just... buried.”

Nicolò stepped forward. “And you didn’t take her then?”

“There were over a hundred men in that place,” Luca said, not angry—just resolute. “You don’t walk into Volkov’s ballroom and take what’s his unless you’re ready to start a war. And that night… I wasn’t.”

Silence.

Nicolò’s voice dropped. “So why are you telling me this now?”

Luca turned slowly, meeting his gaze.

“Because Volkov has something I want too.”

Nicolò frowned. “Isadora?”

“No,” Luca said. “Something else. Something bigger. Something worse.”

Nicolò’s breath caught. “What could possibly be—”

“I’ll explain in time. But what you need to know now is this—when I move on Volkov, I won’t be going for my piece alone. I’ll help you get Isadora back too.”

Nicolò stared at him for a long moment, unsure whether to trust the offer—or whether he even deserved it.

“You’re doing this for Emilia,” he said flatly.

“I’m doing this,” Luca said, his voice a quiet growl, “because I’ve seen too many people locked in cages and called it survival.”

He stepped closer.

“And because the last time Volkov smiled at that girl in white, I wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.”

Nicolò exhaled, slow and heavy.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Luca’s mouth curved—not a smile, but a promise.

“Good. Because when the time comes... there won’t be any turning back.”