Chapter 5 - The Shadow of Marco
Arya’s blood ran cold. The ambient noise of the room—her mother’s quiet sobbing, the mechanical hiss of the oxygen machine—faded into a muffled, distant buzz.
She stared at the glowing phone screen.
Someone was watching the apartment. Someone had tracked Dante here. And that someone knew who she was.
"Arya?"
Dante’s deep voice shattered her paralysis. He was watching her closely, his sharp eyes picking up on her sudden, drastic shift in posture. "What is it?"
Arya’s first instinct was to panic, to show him the phone, to scream. But as she looked at her mother—frail, gasping for breath, her hands shaking on the bed sheets—she knew that showing the threat now would destroy Elena's fragile heart.
Arya quickly shoved the phone back into her coat pocket. "Nothing. Just... an automated work update from La Piera."
Dante’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. He didn't believe her. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. "You went pale, Arya. Show me the phone."
"I said it’s nothing!" Arya snapped, backing toward the kitchen doorway to create distance between them. Her mind was frantically computing options. "Look... this is too much. This is way too much for one day! You barged in here, you dropped twenty-four years of lies on me, and my mother needs to rest!"
Elena reached out from the bed, her voice weak. "Arya, please... don't push him away..."
"I'm not pushing anyone away, Mom!" Arya cried out, her voice cracking with overwhelming stress. "I need air! I need five minutes to think!"
Without waiting for a response, Arya turned on her heel and rushed out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and out the front door into the concrete stairwell.
"Arya, wait!" Dante’s voice echoed down the hall, but he didn't pursue her down the stairs—he couldn't leave Elena alone in the apartment.
Arya practically flew down the three flights of stone steps, her boots slapping against the concrete. She pushed through the heavy street doors and stepped out onto Via Lincoln.
The afternoon sun was harsh, blinding after the dim interior of the apartment.
The street looked utterly normal. A few elderly men sat outside a café down the block, drinking espresso and reading newspapers. A mother pushed a stroller past a bakery. Laundry hung from iron balconies high above.
It was classic, serene Palermo. But Arya knew better now.
She walked briskly to the corner of the alleyway, her hand buried in her coat pocket, gripping her phone. She pulled it out and stared at the unknown number.
Who had sent it?
Marco Valente? Dante’s uncle?
If Marco had threatened her mother twenty-four years ago to secure his hold on the family empire, then the sudden re-emergence of Dante’s secret daughter was a catastrophic threat to whatever power Marco still possessed. If Marco realized Dante had found them, he would move to eliminate the liability before Dante could solidify his power.
"Looking for someone, signorina?"
A quiet, raspy voice spoke from the shadows of the alley behind her.
Arya spun around violently.
Standing in the dim, narrow alley between two crumbling brick buildings was a man. He was in his late fifties, dressed in a sharp gray suit, leaning casually against a rusted pipe. He had thin grey hair slicked back, pitted skin, and cold, dead blue eyes that looked at her with clinical detachment.
Two heavy, muscular men stood behind him, their hands tucked inside their dark jackets.
Arya stepped back onto the main sidewalk, her hand instinctively dropping to the paring knife in her pocket. "Who are you?"
The man smiled—a thin, lifeless slit across his weathered face. "I am the man who gave your mother a second chance at life twenty-four years ago. A chance she wasted by bringing you back to Palermo."
Arya’s heart dropped into her stomach. "Marco."
Marco Valente took a slow step out of the shadows, his polished shoes stepping over a puddle of dirty water. "You have your father's eyes, girl. Sharp. Arrogant. Unfortunate."
"If you touch my mother—" Arya began, her voice shaking with rage.
"Your mother is a ghost, child," Marco cut in smoothly. "She has been dead to this city for a quarter of a century. But you... you are a problem. Dante is soft when it comes to blood. If he knows you are his daughter, he will burn down everything I built to secure your place in this family."
"He already knows," Arya lied boldly, puffing out her chest, trying to project a power she didn't possess. "He's inside right now. If I don't walk back up those stairs in two minutes, his men will sweep this entire street."
Marco laughed—a dry, rattling sound. "Dante came alone, little girl. My spotters watched him enter. He has no bodyguards on Via Lincoln. He is vulnerable. And so are you."
Marco gestured slightly with his hand.
The two muscular men behind him stepped out of the alley, moving to flank her on the sidewalk.
"We are going to take a short drive," Marco said softly. "You will write a note to your dear father telling him you changed your mind, that you took your mother and fled the country. And then... you will simply disappear, just like your mother was supposed to."
Arya backed away, her mind racing. The sidewalk was public, but the old men at the café were a hundred yards away, their back turned. If these men grabbed her, no one would stop them.
"I don't think so," Arya whispered.
She pulled the paring knife from her pocket, slashed the blade wildly through the air toward the nearest guard's face, and sprinted at full speed back toward the apartment entrance.
"Get her!" Marco roared.
Arya slammed her shoulder against the heavy wooden street door, threw herself inside, and slammed the deadbolt home just as a heavy body slammed against the outside panel.
She panted heavily, her blood roaring in her ears, her hand trembling violently around the bloody knife.
May you like
She had bought herself seconds. Nothing more.
She turned and sprinted up the stairs toward the safety of her father.
