I was already married to him, Luciano Ravello.

The kind of man who looked like sin but kissed like summer rain. Sweet. Quiet. A little too gentle to be the son of the most feared mafia boss in Italy, Don Vittorio Ravello.

Luciano was the light in a house built on shadows. He never let the bloodline touch me. He made me feel like his world wasn’t soaked in violence and secrets.

But when I married into the Ravello name, I felt it, that lingering, unspoken warning in every corner of their life: Not everything is what it seems.

We were visiting the Ravello estate today because Nonna Rosetta, Luciano’s grandmother, had personally asked to see me. She adored me. Called me her “precious girl” and said I reminded her of someone Vittorio used to love. I didn’t know what that meant… but it unsettled me.

While Luciano took a call in the garden, I wandered through the mansion for the first time.

The halls were lined with red velvet curtains and oil paintings older than most countries. Every corner whispered something ancient. Powerful. Dangerous.

I stopped in front of a grand portrait in the center hallway.

Luciano as a boy. His late mother, beautiful and serene. Godparents, relatives… and there, at the heart of it all, was Don Vittorio Ravello.

His painted eyes stared directly at me. Cold. Regal. All-knowing.

And then, right beside that massive painting, I noticed a door. Slightly open. Unlit.

Something about it pulled me in.

I shouldn’t have opened it.

But I did.

Creeeaak...

The room was dimly lit. The air smelled like leather, musk, and expensive cologne. Greek statues watched from the corners. A massive bed sat in the middle like a throne.

Then, deeper inside, a soft red light spilled from a smaller door. I followed it.

And what I saw… broke something inside me.

Photos.

Of me.

Hundreds of them. Years’ worth. Me laughing with friends. Me eating in a café. A childhood photo from a school event. My handwriting on a note. The receipt from a bookstore I once visited. My hair, sealed in a glass frame.

“W-what the—”

Then I heard him.

A deep voice, calm and unbothered, from behind me.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, ragazza.”

I turned slowly.

And there he stood.

Don Vittorio Ravello.

Tall. Commanding. A dark suit perfectly tailored to his broad frame. A red handkerchief in his pocket. His silver-streaked hair combed back like a king. His dark eyes didn’t flinch, not even with the truth plastered all over the walls behind me.

He stepped closer, slowly, hands behind his back like a man too used to power.

“Did my son never tell you the rules of this house?” “Or are you always this... curious?”