Aria watched the live footage like she was staring through a dream.
Nico Virelli.
Luca's closest friend. Loyal to the end.
Dead—or so she had believed for nearly a year.
Yet there he was, walking through the gates of the D'Angelo estate like a man returning home from war.
Not limping. Not hiding.
Not afraid.
⸻
Luciano burst into the control room, his eyes locking on the screen.
"Impossible," he muttered. "I saw the autopsy."
"You saw a body with burns beyond recognition," Aria corrected, her voice low. "You trusted the coroner your uncle paid for."
Luciano didn't argue.
The rosary Nico held was Luca's. Aria would know it anywhere—she had stitched the tiny crucifix back onto its chain after her brother had nearly lost it once in a gunfight.
But it was the charm around Nico's wrist that chilled her.
Luciano's mother's heirloom.
Stolen the night of the fire.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was intent.
⸻
Nico was brought into the estate under heavy guard.
He didn't resist.
In fact, he smiled when he saw Aria, eyes unreadable behind dark lashes.
"Long time, principessa," he murmured.
Aria didn't blink. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I was," he said calmly. "Until your father bought my life with blood and silence."
Luciano's hand twitched toward his gun.
Aria raised hers to stop him.
"Let him talk," she said.
⸻
They moved to a secure room. No guards. No recordings. Just the three of them and too many ghosts.
Nico leaned back, relaxed.
"I didn't betray Luca," he began. "But someone did. Someone who sat at this very table."
Luciano stiffened.
"You're saying there was a mole," Aria said.
"I'm saying Luca never died by enemy hands. He died because someone fed your father the location of that meeting. And your brother walked into a death trap."
Aria's stomach turned.
"You saw this happen?" Luciano growled.
Nico nodded. "I was there. I saw who handed the information off."
Aria's throat tightened. "Who?"
Nico paused.
Then said one name:
Marco.
⸻
Luciano slammed his fist into the table, sending papers flying.
"He's rotting in the cellar," Aria said, her voice quiet.
"And he should rot," Nico replied. "But he's not the root. He's just a weapon."
Luciano narrowed his eyes. "Then who's holding the blade?"
Nico stared directly at Aria.
"Your father isn't the mastermind anymore."
Aria frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean he's working for someone higher. Someone who wants both the Valenti and D'Angelo lines wiped out. A third power is rising in New York. And your marriage? It made you a threat."
Silence.
Dead, suffocating silence.
⸻
"You want to help?" Aria finally said, voice ice.
Nico nodded. "Luca trusted me. I owe him more than a grave without truth."
Luciano looked from Nico to Aria. "This could be a trap."
"It could," Aria agreed.
Then she looked Nico in the eyes. "But I'm tired of shadows. Let's bring this war into the light."
⸻
That night, Aria slipped into the wine cellar alone.
Marco sat chained, bruised, still too proud to flinch.
She held up a photo—Nico at the gates.
Marco's expression flickered.
"You didn't know he lived," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You were a pawn. Not a player."
Still silence.
Aria leaned down.
"Tell me who's behind my father."
Marco licked his cracked lips.
And whispered, "You won't like the answer."
⸻
The door creaked open behind Aria.
Nico stood in the shadows, voice low.
"He's not talking because he knows who it is."
Aria turned. "Then tell me."
Nico stepped forward.
And said the name:
"Sofia Romano."
Aria's blood ran cold.
Because Sofia… was her mother's sister.
A woman long thought exiled from the Mafia.
A woman who once vowed to burn both families to ash.