Chapter 3 - My Dead Sister Left Me a WarningI did not sleep.
At 5:17 in the morning, I was still sitting beside the window with Isabella’s photograph glowing on the phone.
Dominic holding her wrist.
Isabella afraid.
It looked damning.
Which was exactly why I did not trust it.
Poverty had taught me one useful lesson: when someone desperately wanted you to believe something, ask what they gained if you did.
At six, I left my room.
The estate was quiet.
I followed the hallway downstairs and found Dominic in the kitchen.
Not servants.
Not bodyguards.
Dominic.
He stood at the counter wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, drinking coffee while reading something on a tablet.
He looked disturbingly normal.
“You wake up this early to intimidate breakfast?”
His eyes lifted.
“You didn’t sleep.”
“How can you tell?”
“You look terrible.”
“Charming.”
He poured another coffee.
“Brazilian.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The coffee.”
He pushed the cup toward me.
“I had it brought in.”
“You had Brazilian coffee brought in overnight?”
“I own restaurants.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers enough of it.”
I did not touch the coffee.
Instead, I placed my phone on the counter.
His expression changed when he saw the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone sent it.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
He picked up the phone.
His eyes hardened.
“What else?”
I showed him the messages.
He read them twice.
Then he called someone.
“Marco. Kitchen. Now.”
He ended the call.
“You recognize the picture.”
“Yes.”
“Why were you grabbing Isabella?”
“I wasn’t.”
I pointed.
“That certainly looks like your hand.”
“She grabbed me.”
I stared.
“What?”
“She was having a panic attack.”
That possibility had not occurred to me.
“What happened?”
“Someone had left a dead bird in her bedroom.”
I almost laughed because the statement sounded absurd.
Then I saw his face.
“You’re serious.”
“The bird’s throat had been cut. There was a wedding ribbon tied around it.”
My stomach turned.
“She believed someone was threatening her.”
“She was right.”
“Why didn’t you cancel the wedding?”
“I offered.”
That surprised me.
“She refused.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabella was more complicated than you think.”
Marco entered.
Dominic handed him the phone.
“Trace it.”
Marco studied the messages.
“I’ll need the device.”
I took it back.
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
“It’s mine.”
Marco sighed.
“Miss Pradati—”
“Deanna.”
“Deanna, tracing the sender requires—”
“You can copy whatever you need while I’m watching.”
Dominic leaned against the counter.
Marco looked at him.
Dominic shrugged.
“You heard her.”
That became the first moment I understood Dominic differently.
He could have taken the phone.
Nobody in the house would have stopped him.
But he did not.
He let me set the boundary.
It should not have mattered.
It did.
Marco worked while I drank the coffee despite myself.
It was excellent.
I hated that too.
“Who is Luca Moretti?” I asked.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened.
“Why?”
“He was photographed with you and Isabella.”
“Luca runs the Moretti organization.”
“Enemy?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“In our world, enemies change faster than weather.”
“Was Isabella sleeping with him?”
Marco nearly dropped the phone.
Dominic stared at me.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because in the photograph she was looking at him, not you.”
Dominic was silent.
Interesting.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“And you were still going to marry her?”
“It was a political marriage.”
“So you didn’t love her.”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Did she love you?”
“No.”
Something about that relieved me.
I immediately became angry at myself.
“This family is insane.”
“Yes.”
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Marco cleared his throat.
“The number is masked through several services, but the image metadata might be useful. Whoever sent it had access to the original security system.”
Dominic straightened.
“This house?”
“Looks that way.”
“So somebody inside your organization is threatening me.”
“Or inside your father’s.”
A noise sounded behind us.
My stepmother stood in the doorway.
Viviana Pradati.
She wore a silk robe and an expression that could curdle milk.
“Already having breakfast with your replacement bride, Dominic?”
Replacement.
I felt the word like a slap.
Dominic’s expression became unreadable.
“Good morning, Viviana.”
She ignored him and looked at me.
“You’re wearing Isabella’s robe.”
I glanced down.
I had grabbed one from the closet.
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
She walked closer.
“You don’t know anything about her. Yet you arrived here and immediately started taking everything.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No. Girls like you never do. Things simply happen to fall into your hands.”
I stood.
“My mother spent fifteen years working herself sick while you lived in this house. I promise you, nothing has ever fallen into my hands.”
Her face tightened.
“My daughter is dead.”
The anger left me.
Not completely.
But enough.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her eyes filled unexpectedly.
“You never knew her laugh. You never watched her ride. You never sat beside her when she was sick. You never heard her practicing piano badly at midnight because she refused to admit she was terrible.”
For the first time, Isabella became a person.
Not a photograph.
Not a dead fiancée.
A daughter.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Viviana looked startled.
Then the wall returned.
“You should be.”
She turned to leave.
“Viviana.”
Dominic stopped her.
“Did Isabella ever tell you someone was threatening her?”
She froze.
“No.”
“Did she mention Luca?”
“No.”
“Did she say she wanted to cancel the wedding?”
Her shoulders stiffened.
Then she walked away.
Dominic and I exchanged a look.
“She lied,” I said.
“Yes.”
Later that morning, a dressmaker arrived.
Apparently mafia weddings did not pause for murder investigations.
I stood on a platform while three women pinned white silk around my body.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
I barely recognized the woman staring back.
The dress was beautiful.
That made everything worse.
A knock came.
Viviana entered alone.
The dressmakers left.
She stared at me.
“You look like her.”
“I don’t.”
“Not physically.”
She approached.
“The defiance.”
I waited.
She opened her hand.
A small silver key rested in her palm.
“This belonged to Isabella.”
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why give it to me?”
“Because she gave it to me the morning before she died.”
Viviana’s voice trembled.
“She said if anything happened to her, I should give it to the woman who took her place.”
My skin prickled.
“She knew?”
“She knew someone would replace her.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Viviana closed my fingers around the key.
Then she leaned close.
“Isabella told me one more thing.”
“What?”
“She said the most dangerous man in this house wasn’t Dominic.”
My breath caught.
“Who was?”
Viviana looked toward the closed door.
May you like
Then whispered:
“Your father.”
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