Page 71 of Stalk Me

“I know who I am.” The words come out stronger than I feel. “Nikolai told me everything.”

Mario’s expression hardens at Nikolai’s name. “Ah yes, the Russian. He’s filled your head with his version of truth despite not knowing it. But there are many truths, Sofia. Many sides to this story.”

“My father...” The words feel strange on my tongue. “Does he want me dead too?”

Mario’s face softens, and he takes a careful step forward. When I don’t raise the carafe higher, he continues. “No,piccolina. Your father doesn’t even know about his wife’s attempts on your life. He believes the story she told him years ago—that your mother took you and vanished.”

I lower the carafe slightly, my arms trembling from holding it up. “Then why?”

“His wife, Lucia...” Mario’s jaw tightens. “She couldn’t give him children. For years, they tried. Then she discovered the truth about your mother, about you. About how your father had hidden you away right under her nose, giving you a life of privilege while she suffered through miscarriage after miscarriage.”

The carafe slips from my grip, but Mario catches it before it can shatter. He sets it gently on the bedside table.

“She was furious,” he continues. “To learn that not only had her husband been unfaithful, but that his illegitimate child liveda charmed life while she...” He shakes his head. “Her bitterness consumed her.”

“So she tried to kill me?” My voice comes out small, childlike. “Because she couldn’t have children of her own?”

Mario’s words come slowly, each one weighted with grief. “Your father and mother discovered Lucia’s plans to harm you. They knew she would never stop until...” He pauses, collecting himself. “Antonio and Maria made arrangements in secret. Found you a safe home far from Florence, far from the family politics and danger.”

My legs give out, and I sink onto the bed. “I was six?”

“Yes. Old enough to adapt to a new family, young enough to forget the old one.” Mario’s eyes glisten. “Your mother, Maria... she was remarkable. She orchestrated everything, ensuring you would have a normal life away from all this.”

“What happened to her?” Though Nikolai told me, I want to hear it from him.

“Two months after getting you safely to Boston...” Mario’s voice catches. “Her car went off a mountain road outside Florence. The brake lines had been cut.”

Just like my foster parents. The same signature. The same killer.

“Lucia.” The name tastes like poison on my tongue.

Mario nods. “We could never prove it, but...” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “The timing was too perfect. And she had done her research well and made it look like an accident, just as she would years later with your foster parents.”

The room spins as memories flash through my mind—fragments of a woman’s warm smile, the scent of jasmine, a lullaby sung in Italian—my mother, the one who gave up everything to save me.

“Did she...” I have to swallow hard before continuing. “Did she suffer?”

“No,piccolina.” Mario’s voice is gentle. “The investigators said it was instant. She didn’t feel any pain.”

I press my hands to my face as tears slip through my fingers. All these years, I’d wondered about my birth parents and imagined scenarios of why they gave me up. I never imagined this—a mother’s ultimate sacrifice to keep her child safe.

Mario settles into the antique armchair, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Sofia, there’s another reason I brought you here. The family needs you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father, Antonio... he’s sick. Terminal cancer.” Mario’s voice roughens. “The doctors give him months, at best.”

The news is like being struck by lightning. A father I never knew, dying before I ever got the chance to meet him.

“I retired years ago,” Mario continues. “I’m too old to lead effectively. The family needs new blood, fresh leadership.” His eyes fix on mine. “You’re the heir, Sofia. It’s time for you to step up, marry a suitable Italian man, and take your rightful place.”

“No.” The word emerges forcefully. “I won’t be forced into some arranged marriage.”

“You don’t understand. This is your duty, your birthright?—”

“I’m in love with Nikolai.”

Mario’s face darkens. “The Russian? Impossible. He may not be our direct enemy since he operates in Boston while we’re based in Florence, but...” He shakes his head. “A Russian cannot lead an Italian family. The old guard would never accept it.”

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