My Dearest Stellina,
If you are reading this, then something has happened to me. Please know, first and foremost, that I have always been so proud of the woman you’ve become. You are strong. Kindhearted. Brilliant. I love what you are making of your life.
There’s so much your mother and I shielded you from, truths we thought we were protecting you from by hiding them. But with us gone, it’s time you knew.
I wrote this letter when idle threats began to surface. I gave it to Preston Langford, my longtime best friend and our family attorney, with strict instructions: if I die under suspicious circumstances, this letter goes directly to you.
Let me start from the beginning.
I am Vincenzo Matteo Ferretti, born in a small-town outside of Palermo, Sicily. I am the eldest son of Don Matteo Ferretti, once the head of the Cosa Nostra, and Francesca Estella De Luca Ferretti. Your grandparents were infamous—ruthless when crossed—but fiercely loyal to those they loved.
Francesca was a force. Beautiful. Sharp-tongued. She was my father’s equal, though the world rarely knew it. She could bring a man to his knees with one look, and she ruled beside my father, not behind him. But at home? She was a lullaby singer, a monster hunter, and a baker of sweets whose almond biscotti could stop traffic in our village. She was my mother.
My parents married young, just eighteen. Much like your mother and I did. Nine months later, I arrived. People feared my father, saw him as dangerous, evil even. But to me, he was just Papa. A loving father… until the day everything changed.
My mother was kidnapped and murdered for information she never had. Papa was shattered. I still remember the way his voice sounded that night—like stone breaking. He stepped down as Don and handed the role to my uncle, Zio Rocco. We moved to Providence, Rhode Island. I was four. I spoke little English and missed Sicily fiercely: the scent of lemons in the air, the cobblestone streets still warm from the day’s sun, and the songs drifting from open windows at night.
Papa put me in the best schools. I learned fast. I played soccer. I became the best striker in the Northeast. He kept the mafia world away from me—for a while.
When I was a teenager, my training began. Papa told me I was to return to Sicily one day and take my rightful place as head of the Cosa Nostra.
But then… I met Eleanor.
I was sixteen. We had a soccer match in Newport. I stepped off the bus, and there she was. The sun broke through the clouds right as the breeze caught her hair. I swear I smelled strawberries. And then… she turned. Just once. Like fate told her to.
I couldn’t breathe. I was gone. I knew I’d marry her—or that she’d destroy me.
Before I could speak to her, she was whisked away in a black town car.
I didn’t expect to see her again… until three weeks later at a charity gala Papa dragged me to. The angel reappeared. And this time, I didn’t let her leave without her name.
We spent two years together. But I was meant to leave for Sicily. I knew she wouldn't follow. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
So I begged Papa. I fell to my knees and pleaded to be released from the role. He looked at me—the same way I imagine he once looked at Mama—and gave his blessing. He told me,“What’s the point of having everything money can buy if you can’t have the woman you love?”
I bought Eleanor the best ring I could afford.
But that night, I overheard Papa and Zio Rocco arguing. Zio Rocco called me an ungrateful bastard, a disgrace to the family name—every word meant to cut, and every one of them landed. I stormed out and went straight to the soccer team’s party.
Drunk. Stupid. And I made the mistake that would cost me everything.
Her name was Giada Ricci, daughter of the Don of the Camorra—our rivals. Six months later, I saw her outside a doctor’s office. She was very pregnant with my child.
I was engaged, days away from marrying Eleanor. I told Papa everything.
His rage was volcanic. He destroyed everything on his desk. But then… he got strategic. Only four people knew: Papa, Giada, Zio Rocco, and me.
Papa brokered a deal. He would claim the child as his own. In exchange, I would pay a lifelong debt.
He married Giada in name only and raised my son as his.
His name is Salvatore Enzo Ferretti. Your half-brother. He took over as Don when he turned 21.
And I became the cleaner.
Through Carrington Caskets, I handled the “messes” no one else dared touch. No one ever questioned a casket company. I won’t give you details—the less you know, the better.
The day you overheard your grandfather and me arguing—you left your wet shoes on the floor, Stellina—I knew you’d heard something. The envelope on the table contained DNA results linking Salvatore to me.
