Chapter 1 - The Woman in the Photograph
“You recognize her?”
The question should have been easy.
No.
That was the safe answer.
No, I had never seen the woman in the photograph. No, I had no idea why she looked enough like me to make my knees weak. No, my mother had never spent my childhood teaching me to fear men with black dragons tattooed across their skin.
Instead, I stood there holding a mafia boss’s baby while every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to run.
“I don’t know her,” I said.
The lie came out thin.
The man across from me knew it.
His name, I would learn minutes later, was Luca Bellandi.
At that moment, he was simply the man everybody in Bellagio feared enough to stop breathing around.
His dark eyes moved from my face to the photograph.
Then back.
“Marco.”
The broken-nosed man beside him straightened.
“Yes, boss?”
“Take down the photograph.”
My manager nearly dropped a tray.
“Mr. Bellandi, sir, that picture has been there since—”
Luca looked at him.
My manager stopped speaking.
Marco crossed the restaurant, reached behind the bar and lifted the wooden frame from its brass hook.
The baby in my arms made a soft sound.
I looked down.
He was staring at me.
Not casually.
Studying me.
His little fingers had tangled themselves into the collar of my white blouse, and his body had gone completely relaxed against mine.
“What’s his name?” I whispered.
Luca’s expression shifted.
“Nico.”
“Nico.”
The baby smiled.
Something inside me cracked.
I didn’t understand it.
I had spent most of my adult life avoiding attachments. My father had never existed except as a blank line on paperwork. My mother had loved me fiercely, but fear had shaped nearly every corner of our home.
Never answer questions about where we came from.
Never tell strangers your mother’s maiden name.
Never trust anyone with a dragon tattoo.
Never ask why.
And then she died when I was nineteen.
A heart attack, the doctors said.
One minute she was making coffee.
The next she was on our kitchen floor.
At twenty-six, I had convinced myself her rules had been the strange leftovers of a hard life.
Now a dragon covered Luca Bellandi’s hand.
And a dead woman wearing my face had been hanging six yards from where I worked for almost fourteen months.
Marco brought the photograph to the table.
He handed it to Luca.
The instant Luca looked at it, something happened behind his eyes.
Pain.
Not ordinary grief.
The kind that never finished happening.
He turned the frame over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Ristorante Bellagio — October 1998. Alessia and Celia. The night everything changed.
My heart stopped.
“Celia,” I whispered.
Luca’s eyes snapped up.
Every man at the table went still.
“What did you say?”
I barely heard him.
My mother’s name had been Celia Hart.
Or at least that was the name she used.
She never spoke about her parents. Never spoke about siblings.
She claimed she grew up in Ohio.
We had lived in four cities before I turned eleven.
Celia.
I looked at the picture again.
One woman.
That was all I saw.
“Who is Alessia?” I asked.
Luca did not answer.
Instead, he slid one finger beneath the cardboard backing.
“There were two women in this photograph.”
He removed the cardboard.
A torn edge appeared.
The photograph had been cut nearly in half.
My mouth dried.
Luca stared at the missing side for several seconds.
Then he said the name like it hurt him.
“Alessia was my wife.”
I looked at Nico.
The baby’s mother.
“She died?”
“Eleven months ago.”
I wanted to hand Nico back immediately.
Instead, he tightened his grip.
Luca noticed.
“Car accident?” I asked.
Marco looked at Luca.
That tiny exchange told me the answer before Luca spoke.
“That is what the newspapers were told.”
My skin turned cold.
“What actually happened?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Then none of this is.”
I gently shifted Nico toward him.
The baby screamed.
Not cried.
Screamed.
His face crumpled in panic, his hands grabbing at me.
Everyone froze.
I instinctively pulled him back.
“Hey. Hey, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
Nico buried his face against my shoulder.
His sobbing stopped almost instantly.
Luca stared.
He looked more frightened by his son’s reaction than I was.
Then his gaze moved to my necklace.
A tiny silver oval rested against my chest.
My mother’s necklace.
She had worn it every day until she died.
“What is that?”
I touched it automatically.
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
Marco shifted slightly.
I noticed.
So did Luca.
He lifted one hand.
Marco stopped.
“I am asking,” Luca said quietly.
“That sounded more like an order.”
For the second time that night, his mouth almost smiled.
“Apparently you are not very good at being afraid.”
“You’re confusing fear with obedience.”
His eyes darkened with something I couldn’t name.
Then Nico reached for the necklace.
His tiny fingers closed around it.
The clasp twisted.
The oval snapped open.
I had owned it for seven years.
I had never known it opened.
Something fell onto Nico’s vest.
A folded strip of paper.
Nobody moved.
I stared at it.
My mother had hidden something inside the necklace.
Luca reached first.
I grabbed it before he could.
“Mara.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
I unfolded the paper.
Three words were written in Celia’s handwriting.
Find Alessia’s son.
My lungs forgot how to work.
Below the words was a second line.
He will be the only one left.
Nico babbled softly against me.
I looked at Luca.
He no longer appeared surprised.
He looked dangerous.
“What did your mother know about my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I didn’t even know this paper existed.”
Marco leaned toward Luca.
“We need to move.”
Luca’s eyes never left me.
“Why?”
Marco spoke low.
“Someone outside has been watching the front entrance since Miss Hart approached the table.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Luca immediately stood.
The restaurant changed with him.
His men rose.
Chairs scraped.
Nico startled.
“Who’s watching?” Luca asked.
“Gray sedan. Two men. One photographed her.”
Me.
They had photographed me.
I stepped backward.
“I’m leaving.”
“No.”
Luca’s voice stopped me.
“You don’t get to tell me—”
The front window exploded.
Glass burst across the restaurant.
People screamed.
Luca moved faster than I thought a man his size could move.
He grabbed me around the waist and drove me behind the table as his men drew weapons.
Nico wailed.
“Down!” Marco shouted.
A second shot punched through the wall.
Luca covered Nico and me with his own body.
My cheek pressed against his shoulder.
I could smell gunpowder.
Customers crawled beneath tables.
Someone screamed for an ambulance.
Then, just as suddenly, the shooting stopped.
Marco spoke into an earpiece.
“Vehicle moving east.”
Luca rose halfway.
“Get the plate.”
“Already working on it.”
I looked at the shattered glass.
A bullet had buried itself in the wall exactly where I had been standing.
Not Luca.
Not his men.
Me.
Marco picked something up near the broken window.
A small black envelope.
He brought it to Luca.
My name was written across the front.
MARA HART.
My hands began shaking.
“Open it,” Luca said.
I almost told him no.
Then I tore the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
Alive.
Taken three days ago.
She was older.
Thinner.
Standing beside a window somewhere I didn’t recognize.
On the back, someone had written:
Celia kept her promise.
Now keep yours.
I stopped breathing.
“My mother is dead.”
Nobody answered.
“My mother died seven years ago.”
Luca took the photograph.
He examined it.
Marco looked over his shoulder.
Then Luca lifted his eyes to mine.
“No,” he said.
The baby rested against my heart.
Luca’s voice turned deadly calm.
“Your mother has been hiding.”
May you like
A pause.
“And whoever killed my wife just found you.”
