THE HEIRESS AND THE HEIR

There were three things everyone in the city knew about the Morettis. They owned the waterfront. They never paid twice for the same favor. And if a Moretti told you to leave, you left. I learned the third rule too late. By the time I understood who I had been talking to that night, I was already sitting in the back of a taxi with my best friend beside me, staring through the window at a black car that had been following us for the last six minutes. “Tell me I'm imagining that,” Kiara said. I didn't answer. The car turned when we turned. My stomach tightened. “That's the same car.” “I know.” “You said you didn't know anyone here.” “I don't.” “Then why are we being followed?” “I don't know, Kiara.” She went quiet. That was when I knew she was actually scared. An hour earlier, neither of us had known enough to be afraid. We had been laughing. Drinking soft drinks we couldn't afford because Kiara insisted that ordering water at an expensive club would make us look broke. I had complained about the music. She had told me I complained about everything. It had been an ordinary stupid Friday night. Until the Morettis walked in. Not officially. Nobody announced them. Nobody needed to. The room simply changed. Conversations lowered. Guards straightened. A bartender abandoned a customer halfway through an order. Then he appeared. The youngest man in the group. Black shirt. Dark trousers. No tie. He hadn't looked like a gangster. That was the problem. He looked like someone who had never needed to prove he was dangerous. People moved because he expected them to. And when his eyes landed on me, I knew immediately that I wasn't supposed to be there. The taxi slowed at a traffic light. I looked through the rear window. The black car stopped behind us. “Driver,” Kiara said, leaning forward. “Can you go faster?” The driver glanced at the mirror. “Madam, the light is red.” “I know.” “Then I cannot fly.” Kiara sat back. I almost laughed. Almost. The light changed. The taxi moved. The black car followed. My phone vibrated. Unknown number. I stared at the screen. One message. You should have listened to him. My fingers went cold. Kiara read it over my shoulder. “What did he mean?” I locked the phone. “I don't know.” “You're lying.” “I genuinely don't know.” But there was one thing I hadn't told her. The man at the club had known my surname. Not the name I had given him. My surname. He had said it quietly, almost to himself, after I'd told him my first name. Then he'd asked: “Your father's name is Marcus?” I hadn't answered. I couldn't. Because my father had been gone for eleven years. And nobody in that club should have known his name. Especially not a Moretti. --- My father used to tell me that there were people you didn't argue with. When I was younger, I thought he meant teachers. Then I thought he meant policemen. I didn't understand until much later that he had been talking about criminals. The Morettis weren't exactly a secret. They were just the kind of secret nobody discussed loudly. Officially, they owned shipping companies, restaurants, nightclubs and warehouses around the waterfront. Unofficially, everyone knew those businesses were only the clean surface. The real Moretti empire lived underneath. My father had never explained what he had done for them. He had only said one thing before he left. “Whatever happens, never trust a man who tells you he can protect you.” At the time, I thought he was talking about himself. Now I wasn't so sure. --- The taxi stopped outside my street. I paid quickly. Kiara looked at me. “Do you want me to come inside?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” She hesitated. “If that car follows you—” “It won't.” I didn't know why I said it with such confidence. Maybe because I didn't want her to be frightened. Maybe because I was frightened enough for both of us. She got out. The taxi drove away. I watched until the headlights disappeared. Then I turned toward my house. The street was quiet. Too quiet. I reached the gate. Something caught my attention. A black envelope lay on the ground. My name was written across it. I stopped. I didn't touch it. I looked around. Nothing. No footsteps. No cars. Nobody. I picked it up. Inside was a photograph. My father. I hadn't seen his face in years. He was standing beside a younger version of the man I'd met at the club. And beside them stood another man whose face had been scratched out with a black marker. I stared at the photograph. My breathing became shallow. On the back, someone had written: Your father broke the Accord. I read it twice. The Accord. I'd heard that word before. Once. Years ago. My mother had been arguing with someone in the kitchen. I had been eleven, hiding behind the stairs. “You know what happens when the Accord is broken,” the man had said. My mother had cried. I had never understood what it meant. Until tonight. I hurried inside. The house was dark. “Mum?” No answer. I switched on the living-room light. Empty. “Mum?” Still nothing. Then I heard something upstairs. A door closing. I grabbed the railing. “Mum?” Footsteps. Someone came down the stairs. My mother. Her face changed the moment she saw the photograph in my hand. She stopped. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Then she whispered: “Where did you get that?” “Who is he?” Her eyes dropped to the photograph. “My daughter—” “Who is he?” She looked toward the front door. “Lock it.” “What?” “Lock the door.” “Mum—” “Now.” Something in her voice made me obey. I locked it. When I turned around, she was still staring at the photograph. “He found you,” she whispered. “Who?” She closed her eyes. “The Moretti heir.” My heart sank. “The man from the club?” She nodded. “His name is Alessio Moretti.” The name settled heavily between us. “Why does he know Dad?” My mother didn't answer. “Why does he have a picture of him?” Still nothing. I stepped closer. “Why did he say Dad broke something called the Accord?” My mother finally looked at me. There was fear in her eyes. Real fear. Not the kind mothers use when they're angry with their children. The kind that comes from knowing exactly what might happen next. “Because your father stole something from them.” I stared at her. “What?” “The Black Ledger.” I frowned. “What is that?” “The one thing every family in this city would kill to possess.” She immediately covered her mouth, as if she'd said too much. I felt the room tilt beneath me. “Every family?” My mother looked at the photograph again. “The Morettis aren't the only ones.” A car passed outside. Both of us froze. Its headlights swept across the curtains. My mother grabbed my arm. “Listen to me carefully.” I had never seen her look like this. “If Alessio Moretti comes to this house, you do not invite him in.” “Why?” “Because he will tell you he knows the truth about your father.” My pulse quickened. “And if he does?” My mother swallowed. “You tell him you don't want to know.” A knock sounded at the door. Three slow knocks. My mother went completely still. Another three knocks. I looked at her. She shook her head. Don't move. Don't speak. Then a voice came from the other side. Calm. Male. Familiar. “Mrs. Hayes.” My blood ran cold. Alessio. My mother's grip tightened around my wrist. The voice continued. “I know she's inside.” Silence. Then: “And I'm not here to hurt her.” My mother whispered something I couldn't hear. “What?” She looked at me. For the first time in my life, I saw my mother realize that there was no way to protect me from the truth anymore. The man outside knocked once. “Your husband left something that belongs to my family.” I looked down at the photograph in my hand. Alessio's voice became quieter. “And after eleven years, I'm here to collect it.” I didn't know what frightened me more. The fact that the Morettis had finally found me— or the fact that my father had apparently been running from them all this time.