Chapter 9 – THE ENVELOPE IN THE MAIL

The first month of living as a Moretti felt like breathing clean air after drowning.

The mansion was filled with light, laughter, and the chaotic, joyful sounds of a five-year-old running through the halls. Adrian had completely legitimized the family’s public businesses, using his power to build rather than destroy. He was a fiercely protective brother and an incredibly doting uncle.

I spent my days managing a new charitable foundation Adrian had set up in our mother’s name, helping single mothers find safe housing.

We were happy. We were safe.

Until a Tuesday morning in late November.

I was sitting in the sunroom, drinking coffee and reviewing grant applications, when Mrs. Gable, the household manager, walked in holding a silver tray.

“Good morning, Miss Elena,” she said warmly. “The daily mail arrived. There is a personal letter for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gable.”

I picked up the envelope. It was thick, made of expensive cream parchment. There was no return address, only my name written in sharp, elegant calligraphy.

I frowned. Nobody outside our inner circle knew my real name, and my old friends from the neighborhood only knew me as Elena Valenti.

I slid a letter opener through the seal.

Inside was a single, folded piece of paper. And wrapped inside the paper was a heavy, silver coin.

I picked up the coin. It was old, Italian, and deeply tarnished. On one side was the face of a Roman emperor. On the other side, deeply scratched into the metal, was a single letter: D.

A cold chill ran down my spine.

I unfolded the letter.

Elena,

You played the game well in Chicago. You removed Carlo and secured the throne for your brother. But you left one loose thread dangling from your mother’s past.

Did she ever tell you why we fled Naples before you were born?

I have arrived in America. I would like to meet my daughter.

—Dante.

The coffee cup slipped from my hand, shattering against the marble floor.

My father.

My real father.

My mother had always told me my father died in a car accident before I was born. She said she fled Italy to escape his abusive, dangerous family. She had met Roberto Moretti in Chicago, and he had taken her in, adopting her and loving her until the fire tore them apart.

But Roberto wasn’t my biological father. Adrian and I were half-siblings.

And my biological father was apparently alive. And he had found me.

Adrian burst into the sunroom a second later, hearing the crash.

“Elena? What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked, rushing to my side.

I couldn’t speak. I just handed him the letter and the silver coin.

Adrian read the words, his face instantly hardening into a mask of pure, lethal anger. He looked at the coin, turning it over in his fingers.

“Dante,” Adrian whispered, the name sounding like a curse.

“You know who he is?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Dante Vitiello,” Adrian said, his jaw tight. “The head of the Camorra in Naples. The most ruthless crime syndicate in Southern Italy. He is the reason my father took your mother in. She was running from him.”

“He says he’s my father,” I choked out.

“Biologically, maybe,” Adrian sneered. “But Roberto Moretti raised you in the womb. He loved you. Dante is a monster who trades in human lives. If he’s in America, he’s not here for a family reunion. He’s here to claim you.”

“Claim me? Why?”

“Because the Vitiello family operates on absolute bloodlines,” Adrian explained, pacing the room. “Dante has no male heirs. His empire is crumbling in Italy. If he claims you—the sister of the Chicago Don—he forces an alliance. He absorbs my power to save his own.”

Panic clawed at my throat. “I won’t go with him. I don’t know him!”

“He doesn’t care what you want, Elena,” Adrian said darkly. “He views you as property.”

Before Adrian could say another word, the mansion’s security alarms suddenly blared, a piercing shriek that echoed through the entire estate.

Adrian drew his weapon instantly.

We ran to the front window overlooking the massive wrought-iron gates.

Parked outside the gates weren’t police cars or rival gangs.

It was a convoy of six black, armored Mercedes SUVs.

Standing in front of the gates, surrounded by heavily armed men in sharp Italian suits, was a tall man with silver hair and a terrifyingly calm demeanor.

Dante Vitiello.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t shoot. He simply looked up at the window where we were standing, smiled, and held up a small, folded child’s drawing.

It was a drawing Sophie had made at school yesterday. She had left it in my car.

My heart completely stopped.

He had gotten to my car. He knew exactly where we were.

And as I stared at the monster claiming to be my father, the drawing in his hand caught the sunlight, revealing a message written across the back in thick black marker.

Send her out, Adrian. Or I take the child.

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