THE MESSAGE IN THE ENVELOPE

My low heels clicked softly on the stone steps as I walked back up to the terrace.

Luca turned, his smile warm and easy.

But as I stepped into the light of the lanterns, his smile vanished. He possessed the terrifying instinct of a predator; he could read the shift in the air, the tension in my shoulders.

“Laura,” he said, his voice dropping. “What’s wrong? What happened in the garden?”

I stood before him.

I could throw the photograph over the balcony. I could let the secrets of the old mafia don die with him. Luca and I could build a life on the beautiful lie that justice had been served today.

But I had lived my entire life suffocating under the weight of other people’s lies.

I wouldn’t build my future on one.

I opened my hand.

I held out the tarnished silver pocket watch and the faded photograph.

Luca looked at the objects. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“I told you, I gave the watch to the Falcones,” Luca said, reaching out to take it. “How did you find—”

His voice abruptly cut off.

He saw the photograph.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. His dark eyes locked onto the laughing image of his younger sister.

He snatched the photo from my hand, his fingers trembling wildly.

He flipped it over. Read the ink.

To my beloved brother, Luca. Forever yours, Elena.

“Where did you get this?” Luca demanded, his voice a ragged, terrifying growl.

“It was hidden inside the casing of the watch,” I said, my voice shaking but resolute. “Vanessa dropped it in the grass last night. She didn’t kill the Falcone boss, Luca. She just stole the watch from your family vault.”

Luca stared at the picture, his chest heaving. His mind, brilliant and tactical, was rapidly processing the impossible equation.

“If the Falcone boss had this,” Luca whispered, the horror dawning on him, “he didn’t hate her. He loved her.”

“Yes.”

“Which means…” Luca staggered back, hitting the stone balustrade. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the stone. “Which means the Falcones didn’t order the hit on my sister.”

Tears spilled over my cheeks. I stepped toward him, desperately wanting to comfort him, but I knew I had to deliver the final blow.

“Peter Doran was in the garden,” I said softly.

Luca’s head snapped up.

“Doran used to work for your father,” I continued. “He knew about the affair. He said… Luca, I am so sorry.”

“Say it,” Luca commanded, his voice breaking.

“Your father ordered the hit on Elena. He couldn’t stand the shame of her loving a Falcone. He killed his own daughter, and then he murdered the Falcone boss to cover it up and start the war.”

A sound tore from Luca’s throat—a guttural, agonizing cry of pure, shattered heartbreak.

He fell to his knees on the stone terrace.

The mafia boss. The untouchable king of Chicago.

He collapsed, pressing the photograph of his sister to his chest, sobbing with a grief so profound it seemed to crack the very foundation of the estate.

I dropped to my knees beside him. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his head to my chest, holding him as he broke apart.

For ten years, he had carried the weight of a war he thought was righteous. He had hardened his heart, become ruthless, all to avenge a sister who had actually been murdered by the man sitting at the head of his own dinner table.

We stayed on the cold stone for a long time.

Slowly, the violent shaking in Luca’s shoulders stopped.

He pulled back.

When he looked at me, the grief in his eyes had hardened into something cold, dark, and utterly terrifying.

He stood up.

“Luca,” I whispered, terrified of the look on his face. “What are you going to do?”

“My father is dead,” Luca said, his voice devoid of all emotion. “But the men who pulled the triggers that night are still breathing. They are still sitting on my commission. They still eat at my table.”

He walked past me, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of a chair.

“You can’t just slaughter your own commission,” I pleaded, running after him. “You’ll destroy the family. You’ll start a civil war from the inside out.”

“There is no family,” Luca said, stopping at the glass doors. He didn’t look back. “It was all a lie.”

“Luca, please!” I grabbed his arm. “This is exactly what your father did! He chose violence over the truth. If you walk out there and start executing your own men, you become him.”

Luca slowly turned to face me.

“They murdered a nineteen-year-old girl, Laura. They murdered my sister.”

“And you want to honor her by bathing this house in blood?” I cried. “Elena wanted peace! She loved a Falcone to stop the war! Don’t let her death be the reason you start another one.”

Luca stared at me. The violent storm in his eyes clashed against my desperate plea.

“Then how do I get justice?” he asked, his voice cracking.