He hugs my face with both callused hands, tilting my chin up to look at him. In those green, iridescent eyes, I can see our love staring back, the piece of my soul I offered him freely. It recognizes me. It cares for me. It’s telling me I have a place in this world where I can find peace when everything around me is shattering.
His thumb brushes my cheek, his brows furrowed in worry, like everything else is irrelevant. When I don’t answer, he brings my head into his chest, wrapping his arms around me.
“I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
And I breathe. Effortlessly. Naturally. My heartbeat takes to his rhythm, as if we’re one and the same, my body melting against his like always.
“That’s so good, Cecilia. Good girl.”
That voice…those words…they slide down my spine like trickling water, slow and soothing and careful. I bring my hands against his chest, lifting my head and holding his gaze.
“I think—” I swallow. “I remember what really happened.”
Lies.Betrayal. Manipulation.
People have been doing it to me my entire life, and I let them. I always thought being the good girl they needed me to be would take me closer to my dream eventually. I was willing to sacrifice my agency for that.
But it has gotten me nowhere.
It wasn’t until Mikhail opened my eyes to what it means to live free, to have the courage to be yourself at the risk of losing whoever didn’t agree with that.
I still don’t have the full picture of what happened the night my mother was killed, of why it happened at all, but the idea that my six-year-old self would have done something so cruel has completely shattered in my mind.
My memory is still coming back in increments, the puzzle missing its center piece. But I know the story sold to me isn’t right.
“I had this dream,” I explain in my husband’s office, him standing against his desk. “It wasn’t really a dream, though. I think it may be what actually happened. And Ms. Donatello was there, whispering things into my ear, suggesting things that weren’t true.”
He nods, his jaw clenching. “Did you see her kill your mother?”
“No. I don’t know if she did it, but I think she may have brought me in once she was already dead. I felt someone carrying me into that bedroom.”
He curses. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that woman is a lying fucking cunt. I got some intel on her this morning, and now that you’re saying all of this, it all makes sense in my head.”
My hands tighten, fingertips digging into the cushion of the couch I’m sitting on. Hurt and disappointment squeeze my chest, but it’s nothing compared to the agony of believing I had caused my mother’s death. So, I welcome it.
“What did you find out? I need to know everything,” I tell him.
He nods, sliding his laptop to the edge of the desk, facing me. A PDF is opened with what looks like medical records.
“Four years before you were born, Lucia got pregnant from one of her targets. She was supposed to infiltrate his life and his business—to become his handler. The Matron, her employer at The Hive, tried to kill her for slipping up. That’s how Lucia got into that car accident that ended her career as a honeypot. But she survived.”
A baby?What? I never knew she had one. She never mentioned it.
“They struck a deal of sorts,” he continues. “The details are unclear. The Matron doesn’t leave many trails, but for some reason, she let Lucia live out the rest of her life as a piano teacher.”
I get up, inspecting the screen with a closer look. “Remus De Sanctis,” I read out loud. “Is that…?”
“Your brother.Half-brother. The target who got her pregnant was your father.”
My brows knit together. “What? But my parents…they loved each other. Why would he…?”
Mikhail shrugs. “Only he can answer that. When I left for Los Angeles, I met this guy. He’s planning to march into San Maleno with his soldiers and claim your father’s business as his only son.”
Brother. I have abrother…
“Lucia gave him away, let him grow up with a family of farmers in Sicily. When I went to see him, I saw this black scarf on his desk. I couldn’t clock it then, but I remember seeing her wear it. It’s hers, which tells me she could’ve been the one who showed up in his life after years and told him who his father was.”
I scroll the document, seeing a trail of flight details with Ms. Donatello’s name, in and out of Sicily—one from twenty seven years ago, and more recent ones from this year. Nothing in between. There’s a police report of her car accident and names I don’t recognize. They’re circled in red with explanations on the side, connecting them to this Matron person.
