Days passed, but the disbelief never left me. Every time I looked in the mirror, it hit me like a slap.
And I hated it.
I wandered the halls of DeLuca’s mansion, pretending to play the part, but my mind kept going back to the betrayal. Marco’s face haunted me—the cold way he’d turned on me, the sound of his voice when he said, “I’m sorry, kid.”
Sorry? Sorry that he damn buried me alive?
The anger burned in my chest, twisting into something darker. I needed answers!
That’s how I found myself at the docks a week later.
I knew it was risky sneaking out, but I couldn’t sit still any longer. I needed to see Marco. I needed to know how he was doing, what his life was like after selling me out. Did he regret it? Did he even care?
The docks were quiet, the smell of salt and oil as sharp as ever. Memories rushed back, hitting me like a freight train. My fists clenched as I walked to the spot where we’d met for the last time.
But Marco wasn’t there.
Instead, I found an old dock worker smoking a cigarette. He looked up as I approached, squinting like he was trying to place me.
“You lost, lady?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I’m looking for Marco,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Marco Russo. He used to work around here.”
The man’s face changed. He looked uncomfortable, almost nervous.
“Marco? He’s gone,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette.
“Gone?” My stomach dropped. “What do you mean, gone?”
The man hesitated, then sighed. “Got himself shot a few weeks back. Right here at the docks.”
The world spun. Marco was dead?
“Who did it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
The man shrugged. “Who knows? Guy like that probably had enemies everywhere. Word is, he crossed the wrong people. Mafia types.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I should’ve been furious, but all I felt was emptiness. Marco was gone. I’d never get the chance to confront him, to ask him why he did it.
But the hits didn’t stop there.
As I stumbled away from the docks, trying to make sense of everything, I overheard a group of men talking nearby.
“Sad about the Morettis,” one of them said, shaking his head.
“Whole family wiped out,” another added. “That fire wasn’t an accident.”
“I know. They do that to silence the family.”
I froze.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice sharp as I stepped closer to them.
The men looked at me in surprise, exchanging glances.
“You don’t know?” one of them asked. “The Moretti family. The father was a lawyer—big name. Held a press conference when his daughter disappeared. Made a lot of noise about the mafia. Two days later, their house went up in flames. Everyone inside was killed.”
My heart stopped.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That’s not true.”
“Afraid it is,” the man said. “Happened right around the time you—” He stopped himself, frowning. “Hey, wait. You look kinda familiar… you're DeLuca’s…”
I didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
I stumbled away, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. My father. My mother. My little brother and sister.
Gone.
All because of me!
They killed my family because my father spoke out, trying to find me. And I was buried alive, powerless to stop it.
I collapsed against a wall, my chest heaving as the weight of it all crushed me. My family. My real family. They were gone, and it was my fault.
“Marco,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “You did this. You left me, and now they’re all dead.”
But Marco was gone too. There was no one left to blame but the people who put us here in the first place.
The DeLuca family.
My fists clenched, rage boiling inside me. They thought they’d won, but they had no idea. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t buried anymore.
If the DeLuca family wanted a fight, I was ready to give them one.
