Page 25 of The Hidden Heir

"I will keep you and Michael locked in the mansion if I have to. Don't make me, Valentina. It's not the life I want for you and my nephew."

I realize, now, that Luca actually envisions a future for us. With us. We're a part of his family, whether I like it or not. And it's the Petrucci blood bond he treasures the most. It's not me or who I am, it's the boy I gave birth to. I lower my gaze slowly, trying not to seem too disappointed.

The last thing I want is to give Luca any kind of satisfaction.

Victor Ellison comes in through the STAFF ONLY door with a stern look on his face. He takes a moment to analyze the general picture—me, awkwardly seated on the sofa, flushed and slightly disheveled by Luca's handling; Luca, standing and breathing heavily, traces of our kiss still lingering on his lips; my wedding dress, left on a rack, close to the mirrors; and the thick tension filling the fitting room, the unspeakable damage and the hint of horror at what could've happened.

"The alley is cleared," Victor announces. "Cops came in, but by the time they got there, everything was gone, bullet casings included."

"Any CCTV?" Luca asks.

"Nothing. They had no choice but to keep moving. There were no witnesses either," Victor replies, then glances at me. "We got lucky this time."

"And the dead men?"

"Not directly affiliated with the Mancuso syndicate, but we're running their IDs through our system. We'll tie them back to Mauro's crew, I'm sure of it. No one else has a good enough reason to go after Luca Petrucci's fiancée."

The words hang heavily between us.

Though not as heavy as the reminder of what life in the Camorra is and always will be. Nice and luxurious on the surface, but dark and bloody just beneath.

Deadly, if I'm not careful.

7

LUCA

Ican’t let this stand.

What Mancuso tried today cannot be allowed to go unaddressed. Victor advised against retaliation, advocating for peace and diplomacy through Caroline, but my anger demands some form of retribution for what happened.

Once I know Valentina is back and safe at the mansion with Luca, I drive straight for the Mancuso residence, on the southeastern edge of Mayfair. Rising mightily against the starry evening, the two-story villa greets me with deep shadows and motion-activated lights, along with six armed guards, who are nowhere near willing to let me in.

Regardless, I stand at the gate and raise my arms slowly in the air.

“I need to talk to your boss,” I say.

“No can do, Mr. Petrucci,” one of the guards says with a hard look on his face.

“I could’ve come here in a different setup, gentlemen. You might as well appreciate that and let me in. Because if I leave now, I’ll come back in a different mindset, and none of you will like it.”

One of their radios crackles loudly with an incoming transmission. The guy takes a couple of steps back and listens—I can’t make out what the order is until he gives his colleagues a nod, and one of them goes ahead and opens the gate for me.

“Mr. Mancuso is willing to see you,” he says.

Good for him, I think, and I follow him into the house.

The Mancuso villa is a palatial behemoth with a classical vibe. Traditional, turn-of-the-century style furniture. Plenty of Renaissance and Baroque-period paintings on the walls, sporting original Sansovino frames. Beautiful porcelain vases overflowing with freshly cut flowers and bronze statuettes at every door and archway. Mancuso seems intent on preserving the past in a world that keeps moving forward faster and faster.

Maybe that’s why he’s part of a dying breed.

I find him seated by the fireplace, draped in a burgundy-red robe, glass of cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other. He gives me a spiteful glare.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Petrucci,” he says.

The guard stands back but doesn’t go far. He keeps one hand on his holstered weapon to make it clear that he will intervene if he has to.

“My nerve is nothing compared to what your men tried to pull earlier today in the city,” I bluntly reply.