CH- 38

CH- 38
Aria POV

The dawn light in this house is merciless.

It slips between the shutters in thin, golden knives, slicing across the polished floors and the untouched coffee in my cup.

I’ve been awake for an hour, maybe two. Not because of nightmares—those have been kinder lately—but because the detective is back.

Marco announced his return like it was a weather report. “Vieri’s at the gate. Says he only needs five minutes.”

Five minutes is five minutes too long when it comes to strangers who smell like trouble.

From my spot at the kitchen counter, I can see him through the open archway leading to the front hall.

He’s standing just inside the threshold, hands in the pockets of a dark coat, like he owns the place.

Marco keeps a wary distance, leaning against the doorframe as if he’s ready to shove the man back outside.

Dante is nowhere in sight, which means Isabella is still upstairs.
That’s probably for the best.

Vieri’s gaze roams over the foyer like he’s cataloging weaknesses. I hate that look. I’ve seen it in boardrooms, back rooms, and in the mirror when I’m about to destroy someone’s reputation.

“Tell Isabella I’m not here to cause trouble,” he says, his voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear—calm, measured, but laced with something darker beneath the surface.

'But I won’t pretend I don’t have what she needs.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. My pulse quickens as I step out from the kitchen before Marco can position himself between us.

The air shifts instantly, charged now with tension that wasn’t there moments ago.

“You have no idea what she needs,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing in my chest.

Vieri’s eyes snap to mine, sharp and calculating, like he’s sizing me up for the first time.
There’s a flicker of surprise—not because I spoke, but because of how firmly I did. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, almost amused.

“Aria De Luca,” he says, drawing my name out like it’s both a question and an answer. “I was wondering if you’d show your face.”

“And now you can wonder how fast I’ll make you leave.”

My tone is ice, but inside, heat coils tight in my stomach.

Marco’s mouth twitches at the corner, like he’s biting back a smirk—or maybe weighing whether this is about to escalate into something messier than coffee and cryptic threats.

Either way, he doesn’t intervene. Not yet.

The detective tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces. His gaze is unnerving—not cruel, exactly, but clinical. Like he already knows more than I do.

“This isn’t about you,” he says finally, his voice smooth as glass.

“No,” I counter, crossing my arms tightly over my chest, “but you’re standing in my sister’s house talking like you’ve got her on a leash. That makes it about me.”

His lips part just slightly, as if he’s impressed—or maybe testing how far I’ll push before breaking. When he speaks again, his tone dips lower, sharper.

“You’re protective. That’s good. But protection only lasts so long when the truth’s already moving toward you.”

“That sounds like a threat,” I shoot back, taking another step forward. Now I’m close enough that Marco shifts subtly beside the door, his posture stiffening.

Whether it’s to stop me or Vieri, I can’t tell—and right now, I don’t care.

“A reality,” he corrects smoothly, unfazed by my proximity. His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. “You might not like my timing, but I’m offering something she’ll eventually want.”

“She doesn’t want anything from you,” I spit out, leaning in just enough to let him know I’m not backing down. My hands are fists at my sides now, nails digging into my palms.

“And I’ll make damn sure she never has to.”

For a moment, silence stretches taut between us, thick and heavy. The scent of strong coffee mingles with the dampness left behind by last night’s rain, clinging to the air like an unwelcome guest.

Everything feels suspended—the ticking clock on the wall, the faint hum of the refrigerator, even the weight of Marco’s silent presence hovering nearby.

Then Vieri smiles. It’s small, patient, confident—the kind of smile that crawls under your skin and sets up camp. “I’ll leave,” he says, turning toward the door without waiting for permission.

“But tell her this—if she changes her mind, she knows where to find me.” He pauses mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable except for the edge of warning in his voice.

“The truth about your father doesn’t stay buried forever.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “That truth,” I say, my voice low and cutting, “isn’t worth the cost you’re selling it for.”

“We’ll see,” he replies, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. They settle somewhere deep in my chest, cold and heavy, making my skin crawl even after he’s gone.

He leaves without another word, the click of the heavy front door echoing through the house like a period at the end of a dangerous sentence.

Marco locks it behind him and exhales through his nose. “Persistent bastard.”

I don’t answer. My mind’s already somewhere else—upstairs, in Isabella’s room, where I found the pregnancy test tucked between the pages of an old book yesterday. I haven’t told her I know. Not yet.

Because here’s the thing about secrets: once you open your mouth, you can’t ever take them back.

By the time I carry the coffee upstairs, she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, her hair pulled into a loose braid, eyes still heavy from sleep—or maybe from whatever conversation she had with Dante last night.

“You were up early,” she says.

“So were you,” I reply, setting the cup on her nightstand. “You didn’t come down.”

Her fingers tighten on the blanket in her lap. “I heard him leave.”

“Good,” I say. And I mean it.

For a moment, we just sit there. The kind of silence that makes the air feel crowded. I could bring up the test right now, force the truth into the light.

But instead, I say:
“He won’t stop.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And I’m not taking his deal,” she says quietly. “Some things… some things are more important than finding out what he knows.”

I watch her closely. There’s something raw in her tone, a layer beneath the words she’s not letting me see yet. And I realize—whatever this more important thing is, it’s not just about her.

It’s about what’s coming.

Her phone rings and it’s Kora, she puts the phone on speaker, “Lets meet, I have got some news.”