Chapter 4: Palucci Name
821 Words
Later That Night - The Moretti Estate
The car was silent on the drive back up the coastal cliffs, its headlights slicing through fog and shadow.
Dante sat in the back, one hand resting against his temple, the other turning a silver ring on his finger—a habit he fell into when something churned beneath the surface.
He should’ve been thinking about business. The shipment coming in next week. The tension with the Carluccis. The meeting with the French contact.
But instead, his thoughts were consumed by a woman with green eyes and a reckless tongue.
Isabella.
What kind of woman walks up to a stranger in a strange town and goes toe-to-toe with him without knowing who he is?
He knew what people called him behind closed doors.
Even grown men bowed their heads when he passed.
But she? She called him old.
And smiled while doing it.
He chuckled under his breath, and the driver glanced at him in the mirror—startled, unsure.
She’s either brave, stupid… or exactly what I’ve been waiting for.
As the gates of the Moretti estate opened and the villa rose into view—lit by golden sconces and guarded by quiet shadows—Dante’s jaw flexed.
That woman didn’t know it yet, but she had walked into something far bigger than she could imagine.
And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to protect her from it.
Or pull her in deeper.
Isabella – Villa Nero
The winding coastal road was darker than she remembered.
The drive back to Villa Nero was mostly silent, the SUV's headlights cutting weakly through the creeping fog.
The town had already tucked itself in for the night—shutters closed, streets deserted. Even the waves sounded quieter, like the sea was holding its breath.
As she turned into the overgrown driveway, a strange shiver danced down Isabella’s spine.
She hadn’t noticed it before.
That feeling. That sense of… being watched.
Villa Nero looked almost spectral now. Like a castle carved from bones, perched above the sea. The windows were dark. The front door groaned faintly in the breeze—even though she was sure she’d closed it before leaving.
She tried to laugh it off.
“Chill, Bella. It’s an old house, not a damn horror movie,” she muttered.
But as she stepped inside, the air shifted. Heavy. Cold. Breathing.
She locked the SUV behind her out of instinct—though she knew how stupid that was. Everything else in this godforsaken place didn’t even have locks.
The creaking floorboards beneath her heels echoed too loudly. Shadows clung to the high, vaulted corners like secrets that didn’t want to die.
She made her way upstairs, flicking the old switch in the hallway. Nothing.
The lights were dead.
Of course.
Using the flashlight on her phone, she wandered into what she assumed had once been her grandfather’s study. It smelled of old wood and older leather, a faint scent of cigar smoke still clinging to the walls.
She moved to an antique desk—carved, heavy, and untouched for years. Something about it pulled at her. A whisper from the past. A thread waiting to unravel.
She opened the first drawer.
Empty.
The second.
Also, empty.
But the third...
There it was.
A thick, weathered leather journal, bound with a black ribbon and worn from use. She ran her fingers over the soft cover, heart hammering in her chest.
She opened the first page.
Handwritten in dark ink—faded but legible.
La Famiglia La Palucci
Her breath caught in her throat.
Italian. She knew enough to recognize that.
The Palucci Family.
She flipped to the next page and began to read.
I, Gaspare Palucci, Don of the Palucci Famiglia, write this to preserve the truth of our bloodline…
My son, Francesco (Frank), was never meant to walk away. But he did. He left our world. Chose peace. Married a foreign woman. Hid Isabella to keep her from what we are.
But you can only run so long from blood. It remembers.
Isabella’s mouth went dry.
Don?
Her grandfather was a Don?
And her father—Frank—walked away from that life? From the mafia?
She kept flipping. Name after name. Family trees. Codes. Locations. Secrets. Mentions of “alliances,” “wars,” “blood debts.”
One page was half-torn and read:
Should Frank fall before his time, it will be Isabella who carries the blood. The heir. The legacy.
She is of royal blood. Cosa Nostra royalty. And they will come for her one day…
She slammed the journal shut, chest heaving.
“What the f**k,” she whispered.
Everything felt upside down.
She wasn’t just some girl running from a broken past.
She was mafia-born. A legacy.
And worse… someone clearly knew she was here.
She looked at the journal again, her hands shaking.
What the hell have I walked into?
- Writer
