CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Somewhere in Florence, months ago

The phone rang twice before a voice answered — low, cautious, and masked by static. Marco’s fingers tightened around the burner. He was parked in a nondescript alleyway, windows fogged from the lingering cold. His suit jacket was crumpled, the knot of his tie half-undone, and for once, the gleam in his eye held no charm. Just weight.

“She’s alive,” Marco said. “And she’s in deeper than I thought.”

The voice on the other end didn’t respond at first.

Then, “You were told to keep your distance.”

Marco stared out the windshield. Somewhere down the alley, a cat knocked over a bin. He didn’t flinch.

“She’s still my niece,” he said, voice firm. “Serafina wouldn’t have wanted me to sit by while Giuliana sinks her claws into her.”

There was a pause, tight and tense, before the other voice returned, colder this time. “You’re not the only one watching. One wrong step, Marco, and you’ll bury her instead of saving her.”

Marco ended the call without another word, heart hammering in his chest. He slid the phone into the glove box and replaced it with a small, neatly wrapped parcel. Cream paper, red wax seal. He traced the letters on the tag before slipping it into the side pocket of his coat.

To Alessia. For truth. —M

He exhaled slowly, started the engine, and disappeared into the falling dusk.

De Luca Villa Gate, Present Day

The guard at the gate had been about to sign for the parcel when Matteo appeared, crisp black coat catching the wind, expression unreadable. The man stiffened instinctively, holding the clipboard halfway in the air.

“I’ll take it,” Matteo said.

The guard looked from the sealed parcel to the name written on the top.

“But... it's addressed to—”

“I said,” Matteo repeated, his voice like ice over stone, “I’ll take it.”

A pause, then the guard relented, scribbling down the delivery note with a trembling hand. Matteo didn’t bother with a signature. He slipped the package inside his coat like it was nothing more than a folded newspaper and turned away without another word. But his grip on the parcel was taut. He didn’t open it. Not yet. Not here. He waited until he was back inside the villa, not in his room, but hers. Alessia had left her window cracked open again. The drapes fluttered faintly as he crossed the room, her scent lingering in the air — jasmine, rosewood, and a trace of oil paint.

The bed was made, but the sheets were rumpled from where she’d tossed in her latest nightmare. A book lay open on the chair by her dressing table, forgotten.

He sat down in the corner chair, legs crossed, and laid the parcel on his lap. It was deceptively light. The seal was genuine — Marco’s handwriting, familiar and bold. Matteo didn’t break it.

Not yet.

Instead, he turned it over, examining the edges, pressing his thumb along the base. Whatever was inside wasn’t large. A folded letter, maybe. A photo. Or worse, something that could break her illusion. He tapped it gently once, twice, before sliding it into the hidden compartment inside his inner coat pocket. A breath escaped him, slow and careful.

He wasn’t angry. Not really.

This was inevitable.

Marco had been quiet for too long. Matteo had half-expected him to stay away, to do what men like him always did: keep secrets buried and call it love. But Marco was trying to be the exception.

Pity.

Downstairs, he heard her laugh, faint, a conversation with one of the staff. She sounded lighter today. Less haunted. Like the weight of her dreams hadn’t clawed through her chest this morning.

Good.

He could work with that.

He stood and walked to her mirror, fixing his collar, smoothing the wrinkle from his coat. The parcel was hidden now. As though it had never arrived.

As though Marco had never called.

She’d never know.

Unless he wanted her to.

He traced a finger along the edge of her vanity, his reflection faint in the glass.

He didn’t smile.

Just turned away, and left the room the same way he’d entered — quiet, fast, and unseen.

The villa was quieter than usual, a muffled kind of quiet that echoed with secrets and dreams not yet shattered. Alessia sat by her window, chin resting against her palm. She had been trying to reach the florist’s line again. It went straight to voicemail. Just like Marco’s number. Just like the lawyer’s.

Always silence.

The sun was low, casting honey-colored streaks across her floor. Her eyes were hollow despite the warmth, and the faint crease between her brows hadn’t left for days. A soft knock tapped at her door. She turned slowly. Before she could respond, the door eased open.

Matteo stepped inside, the perfect picture of tenderness, black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a bouquet of crisp white peonies wrapped in delicate silk paper held against his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze found hers with practiced intensity.

“These arrived for you,” he said, tone low, almost unsure.

She blinked, caught off guard.

He crossed the room slowly, offering the flowers like a secret. “No note. Just your name.”

Alessia stared at the blooms, too perfect to be from anyone local. Imported. Fresh. She touched the edge of a petal, and her voice softened.

“They’re my favorite.”

“Are they?” he asked lightly. “Funny how whoever sent them knew.”

Her lips curved slightly, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Still, she took them, held them to her chest like they were something precious, delicate, like truth before it turned to ash. “They’re beautiful.”

“You should have something beautiful,” Matteo said, and stepped back just enough to let her breathe.

It was the kind of gesture that didn’t need to be loud. It was quiet, strategic. He hadn’t mentioned Marco’s name. Hadn’t brought up the missed calls or the parcel he intercepted. He just showed up… with something she didn’t know she needed until it was in her hands. That was how you built trust, not in grand gestures, but in the gaps between pain and loneliness.

Alessia placed the flowers in the vase beside her bed, arranging them slowly, fingertips trembling slightly. For a moment, the room felt different. Warmer. Almost safe.

Matteo watched from behind, his hands in his pockets. Then he leaned close.

“Who were you trying to call earlier?” he asked, voice laced with just enough curiosity to sound innocent.

She hesitated. “The florist. I thought she might know something.”

He didn’t speak for a beat.

Then, gently, “Maybe you should stop looking in the places your father used to go. Those paths… they’re dead ends now.”

She turned toward him, searching his face. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

Matteo didn’t answer. Instead, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His touch lingered just long enough to light that familiar burn in her chest, the one she was starting to crave even when she hated herself for it.

“You’re tired,” he murmured. “Let the dead bury their dead.”

She didn’t argue.

After he left, the silence returned. But it was heavier now, wrapped in flowers and glances that didn’t belong to strangers. Alessia stood by the mirror, phone in hand, scrolling through a thread of unanswered calls. All dead. All vanished. Like the people they belonged to never existed in the first place.

Marco. The florist. Even the lawyer’s assistant.

All unreachable. Her grip tightened on the phone. With a sharp exhale, she launched it toward the bed. It bounced twice before falling off the edge with a dull thud.

“No one ever answers,” she muttered bitterly, eyes glinting with quiet fury.

Outside her window, the breeze picked up. The peonies swayed slightly in their vase, lovely and still.

Exactly how Matteo wanted her.

Exactly how he was winning.