The room beyond is an office, and it’s smaller than I expected.
It’s more intimate than the formal spaces I’ve seen in this mansion.
Dark wood paneling, leather furniture worn soft with age, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes that look actually read rather than decorative.
This isn’t a showpiece meant to impress visitors.
This is personal.
I take one step inside, then another, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I really shouldn’t be here.
But I can’t seem to make myself leave.
My eyes are drawn to a massive corkboard covering one entire wall, layered with photographs and documents and maps connected by red string like something from a detective show.
My breathing hitches.
Marco’s murder investigation.
This must be Luca’s private room, the place where he’s planned his revenge.
I should leave.
This is the most private space imaginable, and if Luca finds me here, his fury will make last night’s rage look tame.
But I can’t look away from the photographs.
There, in the center of the board, is a picture of Marco Marchetti’s body at the crime scene.
I turn away quickly, my stomach lurching at the evidence of torture and violence.
I don’t want to see that.
I don’t want to understand what was done to him.
I don’t want to see what my father’s cowardice did.
Instead, my eyes find the other photographs scattered around the office, the personal ones that show Marco alive and whole and happy.
Two gap-toothed boys in swim trunks, maybe seven or eight years old, building an elaborate sandcastle on a Lake Michigan beach.
The smaller one—Luca, I realize with a jolt—is laughing at something, his dark hair wild with wind and water, his expression open and joyful in a way I’ve never seen on the man who holds me captive.
Teenage boys with matching tattoos, probably done illegally in some dingy shop, grinning like they’ve gotten away with murder.
Marco has his arm slung around Luca’s shoulders, and they look invincible, untouchable, like nothing bad could ever happen to them.
They look like the boys I went to school with—happy and carefree.
My eyes wander to another photo of young men in suits at what looks like a business meeting, serious and focused.
Marco’s hand on Luca’s shoulder, steadying, supportive.
I turn around and spy another photo on a desk.
Lifting it up, I study it. It’s a casual backyard barbecue, Marco and Luca laughing at something off-camera.
