Chapter 118 Grave Intentions
Valentina
The jet wheels kissed the runway, and something inside me locked into place.
Not fear.
Resolve.
Matteo’s phone had been pressed to his ear the moment we landed. His voice was low, efficient, clipped. When he ended the call, he didn’t look at me right away.
“It’s arranged,” he said. “Rosco’s already there. Everything’s in place.”
I nodded, fingers tightening around the armrest. “Then let’s not waste time.”
We didn’t go home.
Didn’t even slow down.
Rosco was waiting at the private terminal, leaning against the car like he’d been standing there for hours. His eyes flicked to me, then to Matteo, reading the tension like a second language.
“Everything’s ready,” he said. “Crew’s standing by. No witnesses.”
The drive to the cemetery was quiet. Too quiet. The city slipped past the windows in muted grays, like the world had been turned down to half-volume.
I didn’t know what I expected to feel.
Anger. Closure. Vindication.
Instead, it was anticipation—sharp and humming, like the moment before something explodes.
The gates creaked open, iron groaning as we passed through. This part of the cemetery was old. Private. The kind of place money bought silence in.
The groundskeeper tipped his hat once and stepped aside.
And then I saw it.
The headstone.
My feet stopped moving before my brain caught up.
Two names.
Carved into the same slab.
Side by side.
Valentina Maranzano
Liana Maranzano
My breath left me in a broken rush.
“I don’t—” My voice cracked. “I don’t know that name.”
Matteo was already beside me, his expression unreadable. Rosco frowned behind us.
“I’ve never heard of her,” I whispered. “Who is Liana?”
Matteo stepped beside me. His voice low. “You sure you want to see this?”
I nodded. “I need to know what he buried to keep me hidden.”
He turned to the crew. “Dig.”
The grounds crew begun. Shovels hit soil. Each dull thump felt like it struck my ribs.
They unearthed the first casket slowly—mine.
I didn’t realize I was shaking until Matteo’s hand closed around my wrist.
“You don’t have to open it,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied. “I do.”
The top was simple, matte black, child-sized. My hands shook as Matteo broke the seal and eased it open.
Inside, wrapped in plastic, lay a folder.
Matteo passed it to me.
I flipped it open and stared.
My original birth certificate. My forged death certificate. And… a key.
A small brass key taped to a white envelope.
I didn’t open the envelope.
I just stared at the casket like it might bite me.
“This is real,” I said. “They really buried me.”
Matteo knelt beside me, his voice low. “Look at the next one.”
The crew had already moved on. The second casket—larger, older—was pried loose and lifted from the grave. The wood was cracked at the edges, metal handles dulled by time.
Liana’s.
This time, Matteo opened it without hesitation.
Inside: a faded birth certificate. A hospital bracelet. A few scattered photos.
I picked the death certificate up with numb fingers.
Liana Maranzano.
Born—
Died—
The same day.
My stomach dropped.
“She was declared stillborn too,” I whispered. “Just like me.”
And the names of the parents listed on the document?
Stefano and Charlotte Maranzano.
My parents.
I staggered back.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “I had a sister.”
Rosco swore softly under his breath.
I flipped the document back and forth like maybe I’d read it wrong.
Same parents.
Same signatures.
Same lie.
My knees went weak, and Matteo caught me before I could fall.
“They did it once before,” I said, the realization slamming into me. “This wasn’t a one-time plan. They practiced.”
Five years before I was born.
Five years before me.
“They buried her,” I continued, voice shaking. “Erased her. And then… they did it again.”
I stared down at the papers in my hands.
“This means…” My throat closed. “This means I wasn’t the secret.”
I looked up at Matteo, eyes wide and hollow.
“She was.”
The realization was worse than anything I’d imagined.
I wasn’t special. I wasn’t unique. I was next.
My father hadn’t learned from his mistake. He’d refined it.
“I had a sister,” I said softly. “And no one ever told me.”
Matteo’s face was carved from stone.
“I never even got to mourn her,” I whispered. “She was gone before I existed. And then they raised me like she never happened.”
Anger surged—hot, violent, cleansing.
“My father was a son of a bitch,” I said, the words shaking with truth. “A monster.”
I turned to Matteo, chest heaving. “I’m so glad you killed him.”
The silence that followed was wrong.
Too heavy.
Too deliberate.
Matteo didn’t answer.
I frowned. “Matteo?”
His eyes met mine.
And in them—something I hadn’t seen before.
Hesitation.
Regret.
He inhaled slowly.
Then said the words that shattered the ground beneath my feet.
“…I didn’t.”
My heart stopped.
“He’s still alive.”