And someone had killed him for it.
My one night of freedom had cost him everything.
Had cost me everything.
I buried my face in Vincent's chest and screamed until my voice gave out, until there was nothing left inside me but grief and guilt and the devastating knowledge that I was an orphan now. That both my parents were gone. That I'd killed my father as surely as if I'd planted the bomb myself.
Chapter Three
ARIA
The first week after Papa's funeral, I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. The burns on his face. The cuts from the shrapnel. And then, like my brain wanted to torture me, I'd see Kai. His hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The way he'd looked at me like I was something precious.
I'd been with him while Papa died.
The guilt was eating me alive. Mama had been dead only a week when I'd snuck out to that club. A week. I'd barely processed losing her to cancer, and then I'd been so desperate for one night of freedom that I'd gotten Papa killed.
Because that's what had happened. He'd gone to meet Don Salvatore because I'd asked him to find another way. Because I couldn't just accept my fate like a good daughter.
And someone had blown him apart for it.
Uncle Vincent was always around now.
He'd moved into Papa's study the day after the funeral. Started taking meetings, making calls, signing papers. At first, I'd been grateful—someone needed to handle things while I was falling apart.
But then I started noticing things.
The way he'd smile when he thought I wasn't looking. Not grief. Satisfaction. Like he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life.
The way he watched me. Not like an uncle checking on his niece. Like someone assessing property.
How he'd touch my shoulder, my back, his hand lingering just a second too long to be appropriate.
Papa had never trusted Vincent. Never let him near the real power. And now Papa was dead, and Vincent was sitting in his chair like he'd always belonged there.
One week after the funeral, Vincent summoned me to the study.
He was behind Papa's desk when I walked in. Not just sitting there temporarily—he'd rearranged things. Put his own books on the shelves. Hung a different painting. Like he was erasing Papa completely.
The sight made something hot and furious flash through my grief.
"Aria. Close the door and sit down."
I did, my hands clenched in my lap.
"We need to discuss your future." He leaned back in Papa's chair—his chair now—looking comfortable. At home. "You're eighteen years old, unmarried, with no experience running an organization. The other families won't respect you. They'll see you as weak. An easy target."
"So you're in charge now."
"Someone has to be." He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "But that's not what we're here to discuss. We're here to discuss your wedding."
My stomach dropped. "There's no wedding. Papa was going to call it off."
"Was he?" Vincent tilted his head. "That's interesting. Because I've been going through your father's papers, his phone records, his calendar. And there's no record of any call to Don Salvatore. No meeting scheduled to discuss alternatives. Nothing."
"He promised me—"
