The Moretti estate hadn't changed.
Same iron gates, same ivy crawling up the mansion walls like nature trying to reclaim what power had built. The statues in the front garden still watched like sentinels—stoic, cold, and probably bugged. Veronica stepped out of the car and inhaled the smell of rain-soaked stone and memory. Everything here was haunted.
Inside, the house buzzed with quiet tension. Staff moved like shadows, careful not to make eye contact. Her father had ruled this house like a general, but now that he was gone, the hierarchy was uncertain. Everyone was watching. Weighing. Choosing sides.
She passed portraits of dead men with the Moretti jawline, their painted eyes following her down the corridor. Her heels tapped against the marble floor, a sound that felt louder than it should've.
She headed straight for her father's office.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Uncle Carlo sat behind the desk like he already owned it. His thinning hair was slicked back with too much gel, and his tailored suit strained slightly across his belly. He looked up and smiled with the kind of warmth that didn't reach his eyes.
"Veronica."
She stepped in without waiting for an invitation. "Carlo. You're sitting in the wrong chair."
His smile faltered for a second, then returned with a little more grit. "Just keeping it warm. You planning to move in?"
She walked to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of her father's favorite scotch, and poured herself a glass. No offer to him. She didn't sit.
"Depends," she said. "Do I need to?"
"No one's looking to start a war," he said smoothly. "Everyone's still mourning."
"Except the man who replaced the nameplate on Dad's desk before the body was cold."
Carlo sighed and stood, walking around the desk with the kind of performative slowness that made her itch.
"Look, I get it. You're grieving. But this is a delicate time. The other families need stability."
She took a slow sip. "They need a spine."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't let grief make you reckless. This world isn't the one you left."
She smiled, but there was no sweetness in it. "Then maybe it's time someone rewrote the rules."
A knock on the door cut the tension.
Marco "Sparks" Romano stepped in. Tall, broad, and loyal to a fault—at least last she checked. She met his eyes. He nodded once, and it told her everything.
"They're waiting," he said.
"Who?"
"The council. Emergency meeting. Upstairs."
Carlo looked surprised. "You called a council without me?"
"I didn't," Ronnie said, brushing past him. "They did. Apparently, my presence is requested."
---
The council room sat at the top of the east wing, a circular space surrounded by windows and lined with heavy drapes. Seven chairs formed a half-moon around the center. Old men in dark suits occupied five. One chair was empty. The other was hers.
She stepped into the center, letting them see her. Not just the runaway daughter. Not the outsider. Not a girl.
"Ms. Moretti," said Don Federico of the Luzzatti family, his voice smooth but weathered. "We offer our condolences."
"Save them," she replied. "We all know my father didn't die in his sleep."
A murmur passed through the room. One of the younger men, Don Vescari's nephew, stiffened in his seat.
"You're accusing someone?" he asked.
"I'm stating a fact. My father was murdered. And until I know who ordered it, I consider every ally a suspect."
"That's a bold statement," Carlo said, having followed her in. "Especially from someone who hasn't been in the game for years."
Ronnie turned to him. "And yet, here I am."
She scanned the room. "I will find out who did it. And I will take back what is mine. If anyone has a problem with that, speak now."
Silence.
Then Federico leaned back. "Let her dig. If she's right, we all benefit. If she's wrong, she'll bury herself."
Meeting adjourned.
---
Later that night, Ronnie stood on the balcony of her father's study, staring out at the city lights. The storm had passed, but the streets still shimmered with the memory of rain. Behind her, she heard the door open.
Luca.
"You shouldn't be here," she said without turning.
"You shouldn't be alone."
"I stopped being alone the second I walked into that council room. Now I'm surrounded by snakes."
He stepped beside her, close but not touching. "You were impressive in there. Your father would've been proud."
She turned to him. "Would he? Because the more I look, the more it feels like he built this empire on secrets that got him killed."
Luca hesitated. "You think it was someone close."
"I know it was."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, the years between them disappeared.
"You said you didn't come to fight," she said. "So why did you come back?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered notebook.
"Your father kept this in his safe. Hidden. With your name on it."
She took it slowly, flipping it open. Inside were dates, notes, and names. Some she recognized. Others made her blood run cold.
"What is this?"
"A map," he said. "To the truth."
Ronnie closed the book, heart pounding.
"Then I guess we start tomorrow."
Luca nodded. "Side by side."
But neither of them said what they were both thinking:
Trust is the most dangerous game of all.