Page 35 of Marcello DeLuca

“Listen, Altoni,” I keep my voice steady. “Whatever you heard just now, it stays in this room. Understand? No one else needs to know about this.”

“Of course, Marcello. I wouldn’t dream of spreading anything that could cause trouble for you or Lanay. Well, Safia. I was just... surprised, that’s all.” He moves closer, sitting casually in one of the chairs across from my desk, but there’s a watchfulness in his eyes. “I mean, everyone knew about the Kent bombing from all those years ago. The names Stephen and Maria Kent will go down in American History. It was all over the news when we were in high school, but I never connected them to Lanay when she moved into town. It’s... a shock.”

I nod, studying his reaction, trying to gauge how much he actually knows and how much he’s guessing. “It’s a complicated situation. We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it for years.”

Altoni leans back, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp. “You know, Marcello, now that I think about it, I heard something a while back. A rumor, really. The Grecozi mafia—there was talk that they had a bounty out for a woman named Safia Kent. Only, they had pictures of her as a young girl. It never clicked that Lanay and Safia were the same person because she looks so different now.”

A cold dread settles in my stomach. I keep my expression neutral, not wanting to give away how much I know about the Grecozis bounty on Safia.

“That’s interesting,” I say slowly, trying to keep my voice even. “I’ll look into it.”

“Anything I can do to help, just let me know. We’ve got to look out for each other, right?”

“Right,” I reply.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the door Altoni just exited.

Chapter Thirteen

Safia

The Past Returns

One vast showroom of polished wood, plush fabrics, and glimmering glass after another prove not to have what my uncle is looking for. On our third stop, I trail behind Uncle James as he studies a beautiful blue sofa with a deep sapphire hue.

“This would look perfect in Gabriella’s living room,” he says, finally finding his sofa match. He runs a hand over the supple leather, testing the firmness of the cushions.

I smile at his meticulous attention to detail; he’s always been the type to seek out the best, especially for those he loves.

“It’s gorgeous,” I agree, imagining the sofa in Gabriella’s sophisticated, art-filled space. “And it’s the exact shade to complement her Persian rug.”

Uncle James nods.

I take a step back to give him space and glance around, expecting to see Michael and Thomas, the ever-watchful shadows who accompany me everywhere. They’re usually no more than a few steps behind, silent sentinels who blend seamlessly into the background.

But they’re not here.

I scan the room, my gaze darting from one corner to the next. The store is unusually quiet, a stillness that prickles my senses. “Michael? Thomas?” I call out, trying to keep my voice casual.

There’s no response. Just the hushed whisper of air conditioning and the distant murmur of voices from the far end of the showroom.

“Uncle James,” I mutter, trying to capture his attention without causing a scene. “It looks like Michael and Thomas have gotten lost in the maze of wood and fabrics.” It’s a fleeting attempt at humor, but unease gnaws at me.

“Michael? Thomas? Are you guys pranking me?” I ask, still not willing to accept that things have gone awry.

Silently, my uncle takes my hand and guides us toward the side exit. We push past a sleek credenza and a glass-topped coffee table, peering down the long aisle lined with more lavish furniture pieces.

We round the corner leading to the exit, and the sight that greets us sends a jolt of icy fear through my veins. A salesman, a young man with a bright smile now slack and lifeless, is sprawled on the floor, a crimson pool spreading beneath him.

Panic seizes me, turning my limbs to lead. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm in my chest as I realize this is no prank. I spin around, my eyes searching desperately for Michael and Thomas, but all I see are more bodies—staff and shoppers alike—slumped over furniture or lying crumpled on the polished floors.

My breaths come in short, sharp gasps. The realization hits me like a sledgehammer. They’ve been shot. Silencers. I force myself to move, my feet stumbling over the luxurious carpet as I retrace my steps.

“Uncle James!” I shout, my voice cracking with desperation. “Uncle James, we need to get out of here!”

He had been leading our charge toward the door, but now he’s clutching his stomach, a dark stain spreading across his shirt. His eyes are wide with shock and pain as he sinks to his knees.

“Safia...” he gasps, his voice barely a whisper. “Run...”

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