It began with a name whispered in the hallway.
La Serpe.
The Serpent.
An old Italian mafia family long thought extinguished during the Bratva-Italian turf wars of the late '90s. Their resurgence wasn't just a threat—it was a message.
And Lily couldn't shake the feeling that it was meant for her.
By noon, Damian had dispatched scouts to trail the Serpe's new Moscow front—a luxury antique store tucked behind Cathedral Square. The location was bold. Blatant. They wanted to be found.
"They're taunting us," Anton growled as the surveillance photos were laid across the table. "Their men are armed. And well trained."
Lily stared at one photo in particular. A woman stepping out of a black car. Mid-fifties. Hair dark as coal, eyes shadowed by oversized glasses.
There was something about her profile…
"Elena," Lily whispered.
Damian shot her a glance. "It can't be. Elena Moretti died in the Valencia bombing. I saw the footage."
"But what if that's what they wanted us to believe?"
Damian hesitated.
Anton folded his arms. "It would explain how Kevin stayed hidden for so long. If his wife never died, she could've helped rebuild quietly."
Lily looked up. "Then I need to see her. Face-to-face."
Damian shook his head. "Absolutely not. It could be a trap."
"Exactly. That's why they'll expect you to come, not me."
He stood. "You are not going in alone."
"I won't be," she said, voice steel. "I'll take Olga and Pavel. Disguised, unarmed. Just a walk through their shop. If she sees me, we'll know the truth."
He was quiet for a moment, jaw clenching.
Then finally: "One hour. If you're not out, I burn it down."
---
The antique store smelled of dust and secrets.
Lily walked through the aisles slowly, gloved fingers brushing over crystal vases and faded books. Olga and Pavel pretended to browse across the room, ever alert.
A soft bell chimed as a figure appeared behind the counter.
The woman.
Dark hair pinned tightly back. Gray eyes. Italian features.
Lily's heart thundered in her ears.
Their eyes met.
A strange pause.
Then the woman tilted her head. "Can I help you, dear?"
The voice was soft. Familiar.
"I'm just looking," Lily said, feigning calm.
"Many do," the woman said with a faint smile. "But few understand what they're really seeing."
Lily stepped forward. "Like this?" She picked up an ornate box lined in crimson velvet.
"A music box," the woman said. "Naples, 1972. My husband gave it to me when we lost our first child."
Lily blinked. "You lost a child?"
The woman's smile flickered. "She was taken from me. Stolen from her crib. I searched for years."
Lily's fingers trembled. "And did you find her?"
A long pause.
The woman looked into Lily's face—searching, trembling.
"I think," she whispered, "I might be looking at her."
Time stopped.
Lily's breath caught as the world blurred at the edges.
"Elena?" she asked, her voice breaking.
The woman stepped around the counter, hand to her mouth. "Luciana…"
The name hit Lily like lightning.
She remembered now. A lullaby in a foreign tongue. A warm voice whispering it night after night. A woman's scent—jasmine and cinnamon.
"Mama?" Lily's voice cracked.
And then they were in each other's arms.
Two broken halves.
Two stolen decades.
Weeping like the sea had finally found its shore.
---
Twenty minutes later, back in the Bratva SUV, Olga sat stunned. Pavel looked ready to shoot anyone who came too close.
Lily didn't speak until they were halfway to the estate.
"I found my mother," she whispered.
They said nothing.
Because they understood.
Some wars weren't fought with bullets. But with blood. And memory.
---
Damian met her at the door, heart in his eyes. "You're late."
"She's alive."
He froze.
"Elena Moretti is alive. And I'm not Lily Keller." Her eyes shimmered with realization. "I'm Luciana Moretti."
Damian sat hard on the armchair.
"She told me everything," Lily—Luciana—said. "Kevin faked her death to protect her from the Moretti purge. She's been hiding ever since, trying to survive. When she realized I might be here, she came to find me."
He looked up. "What does she want now?"
"Me. To come with her. To reclaim what was stolen. My place. My name."
Damian's jaw clenched. "And will you?"
Luciana walked over, touching his face.
"I don't know. But I'm not leaving you."
He covered her hand with his. "Then whatever war comes next… we face it together."
---
That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
She was no longer Lily.
No longer just a mother. Or a wife.
She was Luciana Moretti—daughter of mafia royalty, heir to a shattered empire, wife of a Bratva king.
And the true storm had just begun.
---