The house is massive, straight out of a magazine. A stunning mid-century modern place that looks more like art than a home. Black SUVs with tinted windows line the driveway, confirmation enough of what this place really is.
A mafia house.
Clearly, no one expects visitors if they’re comfortable letting someone walk right up. I move forward carefully, as quiet as I can manage, every step measured. Just in case someone’s posted nearby. Just in case someone’s waiting to take down anyone foolish enough to approach.
I walk up to the door and ring the doorbell. Inside, I hear chairs scrape across the floor—but no one answers.
Great. They probably think I’m a door-to-door salesperson.Like they would be out here.
I ring the bell two more times, then start knocking. After what feels like an eternity, the door finally swings open.
All I see is two guns pointed at me.
I raise my hands instantly. A beat passes, then the guns lower.
“Uh… can I help you?” a man asks, staring right at me.
We have the same green eyes. His hair is nearly jet black, but there’s no mistaking it. One look tells me exactly who he is.
“Hi, my name is Vanessa Esposito, and I think I’m your sister,” I say, still trying to catch my breath.
That was definitely not what I was planning on saying.
“What?” he snaps, his voice rising.
“Holy shit,” the guy next to him mutters.
Wait, I look closer. Recognition hits me all at once.
That’s the guy from the hospital.
“Mateo?” I say.
“How the hell do you know him? Hold on—let me ask you,” he says, turning on Mateo. “How the fuck do you know her? Please, dear God, tell me you didn’t give her my address.”
I’m about to answer when Mateo cuts in. “No, man. She was a nurse at the hospital we went to last night. The one Alonso was taken to.”
Gino looks between the two of us. “Do nurses do house calls now?”
“Uh, no. My Uncle Kevin and Aunt Lucy told me about you this morning. I just found out my dad died two years ago,” I rush out.
“Great. So what family are you from?” Gino says.
Mateo and an Asian woman standing behind him go quiet, just staring.
“Family?” I ask. “What does that even mean?”
“Are you Russian? You’ve got red hair, so I doubt it. Irish, maybe?”
“Umm… no. I don’t think so. I mean—maybe? Here. My dad wrote me this letter and gave me some other documents. You should probably look at them so I don’t have to keep explaining this in circles.”
I hand him the Manila envelope. Inside are the letter and a copy of Dad’s will, the one that names me a partial owner of his businesses. He grabs it from my hand and walks away.
“Hi, I’m Juliet. That’s Gino. It’s obvious you already know Mateo,” the woman standing behind Mateo says.
She gives me a reassuring smile. “Come in. Gino just hates surprises.”
From down the hall, Gino lets out a low, irritated grumble.
