Page 155 of Brutal Heir

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that Sebastian had tapped into my phone—every call, every text, monitored. I could only hope he hadn’t done the same to my personal laptop.

The café around me buzzed with the murmur of conversations, the clang of dishes, and the hiss of the espresso machine, but it all faded into the background.

My focus tunneled to the screen in front of me.

For the first time, I typed my father’s name into the search bar.

Judge Delluci.

Images populated the screen, and there he was—the man I'd seen last night. Handsome, distinguished…powerful.

Although most of the information was in Italian, fragments in English jumped out at me. President of the Constitutional Court of Italy.

The medal I’d seen gleaming on his chest was the Grand Cross of the Order of Merit of the Italian Republic—the highest-ranking honor in Italy. My father was a freaking knight.

I skimmed the words.

A polarizing figure, it seemed.

Whispers of corruption and mafia ties littered the pages, casting shadows over his regal image.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat.

I needed more.

With shaking hands, I typed in Sebastian’s name alongside my father’s.

Nothing.

Not a single connection—at least, not on the surface.

Finally, I entered my mother’s name alongside his. Again, nothing conclusive. Just obscure articles with her family’s name, Badalamenti, interwoven with legal jargon—official court documents, all in Italian.

I slammed my laptop shut, the sound startling the elderly couple at the next table. The guard at the door shifted.

This was getting me nowhere.

I glanced down at my cup, tracing the dark, swirling remnants clinging stubbornly to the porcelain. I inhaled deeply, the rich aroma of coffee doing little to calm my nerves.

I knew what I had to do.

I wouldn't run away to New York.

I would stay in Rome.

The realization settled over me with the weight of inevitability. If Sebastian refused to answer my questions, then I knew someone who might.

My father.

My heart pounded with a mixture of fear and fierce resolve.

I stared at the swirling patterns in my cup once more, as if the dregs could offer some prophetic insight. The air around me thickened, the café’s lively atmosphere pressing in, suffocating and invigorating all at once.

This was no longer about secrets whispered in the dark or questions dodged with skillful evasion.

This was about finding the truth—my truth.

The café door swung open, letting in a gust of cool morning air that brushed against my flushed cheeks. I squared my shoulders, feeling a surge of defiance.