Chapter 12 A Different World
Valentina
I spent the better part of twenty minutes looking for Carol.
Not in the kitchen.
Not in the courtyard.
Not in the office-library-living-whatever room where she sometimes folds laundry that doesn’t even exist in this suite.
It was like she vanished.
I crossed the grand foyer, annoyed and barefoot—because shoes felt like effort—when the front door creaked open and a familiar silhouette moved past me without so much as a glance.
Matteo.
He was already halfway through the threshold before I called after him.
“Hey—have you seen Carol? I can’t find my phone.”
He stopped.
Turned around slowly.
“I took it.”
The words were clipped. Absolute.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I was going to give you this earlier,” he said, pulling a sleek phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, “before you stormed out of my office.”
So that’s what we’re calling it now.
I crossed my arms. “Everything just gets reduced to me ‘storming out,’ huh?”
He didn’t answer. Just slipped on a pair of sunglasses like I hadn’t spoken.
“I had no problem with my phone,” I said, voice sharper. “It was perfectly fine. Brand new, in fact.”
He paused, hand on the door.
Then turned just enough to speak over his shoulder.
“Yes, but you’re in a different world now,” he said. “One of danger, encryptions, and GPS tracking.”
And then he was gone.
The heavy door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the new phone still burning in my hand.
I stare at the door for a few seconds after it shuts.
“Well,” I mutter, glancing down at the phone in my hand, “I guess I don’t need Carol anymore.”
A soft chime vibrates through my palm.
A new message.
From Matteo. His contact’s already saved. Of course it is.
Matteo:
I have business to attend to. I’ll be late. Don’t wait on me for dinner.
I roll my eyes.
Wasn’t planning to.
I don’t bother replying. I just slip the phone into my pocket and head back toward my suite. The house is too quiet again, all polished marble and looming silence. My bare feet make no sound on the floors, and yet I feel like I’m being watched—by the walls, by the fucking furniture.
Another chime.
I pull the phone out again.
Matteo:
I expect acknowledgment when I text you.
I stop walking. Blink. Then type the most appropriate response I can come up with.
👍
A few seconds pass. Another text.
Matteo:
Your laptop is also no longer in your possession. A new one should arrive within the hour.
I freeze mid-step.
What the hell?
Me:
So you stole my laptop too?
Matteo:
I upgraded your equipment. You’ll find it more secure.
Your files, emails, everything has been migrated.
You’ll be able to access everything exactly as before. Don’t worry.
Oh, well that’s comforting.
Nothing like a forced tech swap by a mafia overlord to make you feel extra safe.
Then another ping.
Matteo:
There’s a credit card in the drawer of your office desk. Use it for whatever you need.
Printer. Supplies. Anything.
That office is your home base now. Make use of it.
I stare at the screen for a beat.
Well damn.
I mean… he’s not wrong.
I was going to need a reason to make this look legit.
New laptop. New office. Credit card with no limit? Fine.
I can work with that.
No, I didn’t have a real business to get back to. That was part of the cover. But if I’m going to make this marriage charade believable—especially for anyone watching—I’m going to need to lay the groundwork.
And when the laptop shows up, I’ll start ordering.
Office supplies. Equipment. Maybe even a fake client or two.
Gotta make it look real.
Especially if I’m going to use this place to track everything Matteo’s involved in.
Every deal. Every name. Every dollar moved and every man loyal to him.
With Matteo gone, the house feels even larger. Emptier. But not in a peaceful way.
More like a hollow echo. A warning.
Still, I take advantage of the silence. Not to break anything open—yet—but to look. Just look. Calm. Curious. Nothing that would set off any alarms. After all, I’m the fiancée now. Wandering should be expected. I’m just “getting to know the place.”
Right.
I move slow, deliberate, my steps nearly silent as I make my way through the west wing. My aim is Matteo’s office. See what he left out. What he didn’t bother locking up. But on the way there, I pass something that stops me cold.
A room with no door.
Open. Soft light spilling out.
Not like the rest of this oversized tomb of polished concrete and glass and wealth-slicked silence. This room… looks lived in.
The walls are painted a soft gold. A thick rug muffles the floor. Big, worn-in couches. Throw blankets. A basket of old toys tucked in the corner, faded from use.
And photos.
Framed, printed, touched photos—not digital screens or sterile museum-style canvases. Actual pictures.
A boy with dark hair and a crooked smile. A woman with soft eyes, laughing, her hand on his head. A man behind them both, arms wrapped around them.
I step closer to the largest one—clearly taken on a beach somewhere. The woman’s hair is wind-tangled. The boy has sand on his knees. And the man—Mr. Antonio Genovese, I presume—is mid-laugh. The kind of laugh you don’t fake. Full of life.
It’s so normal, it guts me.
“This was always my favorite photo,” says a voice beside me.
I jump, just a little. Carol’s there, standing with her hands folded lightly in front of her, eyes on the frame like she’s not even surprised I’m here.
“They were such a loving family,” she says with a warm, quiet sadness. “Mr. Antonio always made sure to carve out family time, no matter how busy things got. And Mrs. Sharona… she was the sweetest woman you could ever meet.”
I glance at Carol, then back at the photograph. “This room looks like someone could just walk in and pick up where they left off.”
“That’s because no one ever touched it,” Carol murmurs. “After Mr. Antonio died, this room was never used again.”
I frown. “Too painful?”
She nods. “I think it was just too hard for them.”
Them.
I look at her. “You mean Matteo and his mother?”
“Yes,” Carol says softly. “They were close. After Mr. Antonio was killed…”
She trails off, eyes distant.
I swallow. “How did he die?”
Carol’s face tightens, grief flickering across it like a shadow. “He was murdered. Shot outside a restaurant in Midtown. By a man who was pure evil incarnate.”
“Stefano Maranzano.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face still.
To keep from defending my father.
Instead, I nod slowly. “I’ve heard the name.”
Carol sighs. “Everyone’s heard the name. It was all over the news. The trial never happened, of course. He disappeared before he could be arrested. But we all knew who did it.”
I keep quiet.
Carol continues, her voice gentling again. “Mrs. Sharona fell into a deep depression afterward. She was never the same. Two years later, she took her own life.”
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
“She was just… gone,” Carol adds softly. “Even before she died. Like the light went out the day Antonio was killed. Matteo did everything he could to hold her together. But she wasn’t meant to be without him.”
I say nothing.
But inside, I’m so confused. I never knew my father killed Matteo’s father. Or so they believe, it’s possible it wasn’t him.