Chapter 1: Family Legacy
1791 Words
They say you can smell death before it arrives, but no one warned me it would smell like lilies and expensive cologne.
I stand at the edge of my father’s grave, dirt under my nails from where I clawed at the casket before they lowered it. No one stopped me. No one dared. The Romano name still carries weight in Palermo, even if that weight is crushing us alive.
Black fabric sticks to my skin. August in Sicily is unforgiving, and this dress, this mourning, this performance, it’s all suffocating. I can feel eyes on me. Hundreds of them. Vultures in designer suits, waiting to see if I’ll crack.
I won’t.
Alessandro stands to my right, rigid as the marble headstones surrounding us. His jaw works like he’s chewing glass. My little brother, twenty-three and suddenly responsible for an empire he never wanted. The bruises on his knuckles are fresh. He’s been in Father’s office every night this week, and every morning he looks more haunted.
“Elena.” His voice is low, careful. “We need to go.”
“Not yet.”
“People are staring.”
“Let them.”
The priest drones on in Latin, words I stopped believing in when I was twelve and realized God doesn’t live in places like ours. Father Enzo catches my eye, and something passes between us. Pity, maybe. Or warning. I look away.
That’s when I see him.
Luca Valenti.
He’s standing across the cemetery, separated from the funeral crowd by choice, not distance. Dark suit, darker eyes. He doesn’t belong here. The Valentis and Romanos haven’t shared the same air without bloodshed in over a decade, yet here he is, watching me like I’m something he’s considering buying.
My stomach twists.
“Sandro.” I don’t take my eyes off Luca. “Why is he here?”
Alessandro follows my gaze and goes still. The kind of still that comes before violence. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Elena, please. Not here.”
But I’m already moving, heels sinking into grass still damp from yesterday’s rain. Someone tries to stop me, Aunt Giulia maybe, but I shake her off. The crowd parts. They always do. I’m Dante Romano’s daughter, and even dead, his name is a blade.
Luca doesn’t move as I approach. He just watches, expression blank as a winter sky. Up close, he’s worse than I remember. Sharp cheekbones, mouth set in a line that’s never known softness. There’s something predatory in the way he stands, weight shifted forward like he’s always ready to attack.
“You have some nerve.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Paying respects to the dead isn’t a crime, Miss Romano.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What would you prefer? Elena?” He says my name like it’s a weapon. “Or should I wait for your married name?”
Ice floods my veins. “What are you talking about?”
His smile is a knife wrapped in silk. “Your brother didn’t tell you? How interesting.”
“Tell me what?”
“Ask him yourself.” Luca’s gaze slides past me, fixing on Alessandro who’s now standing ten feet away, pale as the corpse we just buried. “Though I suspect you already know. You Romanos always did have a talent for keeping secrets.”
He turns to leave, and I don’t know what possesses me, grief or rage or something worse, but I grab his arm. The fabric of his suit is expensive, the muscle beneath it unyielding.
“If you have something to say to me, say it.”
Luca looks at my hand on his arm, then at my face. This close, I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, can smell cedar and something darker, metallic. Blood, maybe. It’s always blood with families like ours.
“Your father owed mine a debt.” His voice drops, intimate as a threat. “And debts in our world don’t die with the debtor. They pass down. Like heirlooms.”
“We don’t owe you anything.”
“No?” He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Then why is your brother so desperate to make a deal?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He pulls back, studies me with something that might be amusement if it wasn’t so cold. “I’ll see you soon, Elena. Sooner than you think.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the maze of headstones and shadows, leaving me standing there with dirt on my hands and poison in my veins.
Alessandro reaches me before I can chase after him. His grip on my elbow is firm enough to bruise.
“Don’t.” One word, but it’s a command.
“What did you do?”
“Not here. Please, Elena. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I laugh, and it sounds wrong, jagged. “Our father is dead, his consigliere is missing half our accounts, and Luca f*****g Valenti just showed up at his funeral talking about debts. So tell me, little brother, what exactly should I trust?”
His face crumples for just a second, and I see it. The boy he used to be, before Father molded him into this. Before responsibility became a noose.
“The house,” he says finally. “We’ll talk at the house.”
“Sandro…”
“Please.”
I want to push. Want to demand answers right here, right now, in front of God and everyone. But Alessandro’s eyes are begging, and I’m so tired. Tired of being strong, tired of holding our family together with bloody fingernails and sheer will.
“Fine.” I shrug off his hand. “But if you’re making deals with Valentis, you better pray I’m more forgiving than Father was.”
The reception is a nightmare dressed in black lace and false sympathy. Our villa, the one Father loved more than he loved us, is full of people who hated him. They eat our food, drink our wine, and calculate how much of our empire they can carve up before we notice.
I smile. Nod. Accept condolences that taste like ash.
Aunt Giulia corners me by the windows, pressing a glass of prosecco into my hand like alcohol can fix grief. “You’re handling this beautifully, cara. Your father would be proud.”
Would he? I want to ask. Would he be proud that his daughter is playing hostess while his empire crumbles? That his son is making deals with enemies? That everything he built is collapsing like a house of cards in a hurricane?
Instead, I say, “Thank you, Zia,” and take a sip that burns.
That’s when I see him again.
Luca Valenti, standing in my father’s house like he owns it. Like he owns everything. He’s talking to Paolo, Father’s consigliere, and whatever they’re discussing, Paolo looks like he might vomit.
Our eyes meet across the room.
He raises his glass.
A toast. A threat.
Alessandro appears at my shoulder, voice tight. “Elena. We need to talk. Now.”
“I know.”
He leads me upstairs, past the guests, past the memories, into Father’s office. The room still smells like him. Cigars and old leather and something darker I never could name. The desk is a mess, papers scattered like someone was looking for something. Or hiding something.
“Tell me,” I say, and I’m surprised by how calm I sound. How empty.
Alessandro pours himself three fingers of Father’s scotch and downs it in one go. Then another. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“Father didn’t die of a heart attack.”
The world tilts. “What?”
“The coroner, he’s on the payroll. Ours. But the autopsy…” He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice it’s shaking. “There were marks. Injection sites. They made it look natural, but it wasn’t. Someone killed him, Elena. Someone got past all our security, all our people, and murdered him in his own f*****g bed.”
I should sit down. Should process this. But my legs won’t move.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But Father knew something was coming. Three weeks ago, he called a meeting with the Valentis. Wanted to make peace, he said. Wanted to end the feud.”
“Father didn’t do peace.”
“No.” Alessandro’s laugh is bitter. “He did bargains. And the bargain he made…” He can’t look at me. Won’t look at me. “Elena, he offered them you.”
The words don’t land at first. They hover in the air like smoke, like if I just wait long enough they’ll disappear.
“What do you mean he offered them me?”
“A marriage. You and Luca Valenti. He said it would unite the families, strengthen both sides, end the bloodshed. But really?” Alessandro finally meets my eyes, and there’s so much pain there I almost can’t stand it. “Really, I think he was buying time. Protection. He knew someone was coming for him, and he thought the Valentis could help.”
“And they killed him anyway.”
“I don’t… I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it was someone else who didn’t want the alliance. But the deal, Elena. The deal still stands. Father put it in writing, had it witnessed by the Commission. If we back out now…”
“We lose everything.”
“We lose everything,” he confirms. “Our territory, our businesses, our people. The other families are already circling. Without the Valenti alliance, we’re dead in the water.”
I walk to the window, look down at the reception still going on below. All those people, pretending to care. Luca Valenti is gone now, but his presence lingers like smoke after a fire.
“When?” My voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
“The wedding is set for three weeks. Luca insisted on tradition. Full ceremony, full reception. He wants everyone to see.”
“See what? His prize?”
Alessandro flinches. “Elena…”
“No.” I turn to face him, and I can feel something hardening inside me, something sharp and necessary. “You don’t get to feel guilty. You don’t get to act like you’re doing this to me when we both know I’m doing this for us. For our family. For everything Father left behind.”
“You could run. I have money, connections. I could get you out of Sicily, somewhere safe…”
- Writer
