The following days after the incident outside the pub were filled with an unspoken coldness that Leona couldn't quite explain. It wasn't the silence of calm or the absence of words—it was a palpable distance, a subtle shift that pressed against her chest, tightening with each passing hour.
Valerio had been different since the night she'd encountered Salvatore. He wasn't cold in the way he used to be when he was angry. No, this was something sharper, quieter. It wasn't anger, but something deeper, more confusing. He was distant, reserved, like she was a stranger, someone he'd never known. His glances were fleeting, his words few, and each time she tried to reach out, he would brush her off with a polite smile, or worse, complete indifference.
The worst part? She didn't know what she had done wrong. Was it the letter? Was it him overhearing the conversation between her and Salvatore outside? Leona couldn't even remember the details of that night. Everything was foggy, blurred by the alcohol. But she remembered the way Salvatore had held her, and how… comfortable it had felt. He hadn't been cruel. He hadn't tried to hurt her. She'd almost let herself be in the moment, a small, guilty part of her feeling grateful for the way he'd kept her steady when the world had tilted. But Valerio was the one who mattered. Valerio was the one who protected her, who had been there for her when no one else had.
Why was she suddenly feeling this strange sense of emptiness?
She pushed the thought away and tried to focus on Valerio. But it seemed like no matter how many times she tried to approach him—whether it was when he was working in the study or when they were in the kitchen together—he'd find a way to avoid her, giving her nothing more than curt replies. She caught glimpses of his gaze, but his eyes never stayed on her for too long, his focus always somewhere else, anywhere else but her.
That hurt more than anything. The silence between them was louder than any fight they could've had. She had gotten used to their conversations, their small arguments, even their moments of quiet understanding. But this—this emotional barricade—was something new, something she hadn't known how to handle.
Leona tried to talk to him about it, of course. But each time she did, his responses were vague and dismissive.
"I'm fine, Leona. Really. Just tired." That was his excuse one morning as she caught him staring out the window, his back turned to her.
But Leona saw the subtle shake of his shoulders. He wasn't tired. He was conflicted. It was the same way he acted when he had too many things running through his head, too many thoughts that tangled and clashed, leaving him unable to focus.
It wasn't about the letter anymore, she realized. It wasn't about anything that made sense to her. It was about something unspoken—something Valerio wasn't ready to share with her. But why? She was here, by his side. She had been loyal, careful, kept his secrets safe. What had happened to change that?
It stung to think it was her fault. That maybe she had done something wrong. Something Valerio couldn't forgive. But she couldn't figure out what it was.
Meanwhile, the world outside was changing, shifting once again.
In the dark of the night, a fresh murder was carried out. The message was clear: another life had been taken in cold blood, and once again, the signature of Vesper was left behind.
This time, the target wasn't just any ordinary criminal or underling. This was someone far more connected, far more dangerous—a Russo, someone of considerable importance within the family. His name was Pietro Russo, a quiet man who had spent years outside the public eye, working as an adviser to the Russo family. Pietro had been the one person who had known about the family's darkest secrets—the ones even Dante didn't know about. But he was discreet, subtle, and for the most part, kept to the shadows.
But it wasn't just Pietro's silence that had made him a target. It was his knowledge. He knew about a child, a secret that had been buried deep within the family. A child born from a union many years ago—Pietro's own niece, someone who had been taken away from her mother as an infant by her father, the late head of the Russo family. Her existence had been erased, wiped from the family history as if she had never existed.
But the truth was that she had been taken, hidden away by her own blood, far from her mother, and forgotten. A secret only Pietro knew. A secret that had now come to haunt them all.
The woman who had been the mother—the one whose child had been stolen away—was none other than Mrs. Russo, Dante's mother. A secret so dark, so deep, it could shake the foundation of the Russo family. If anyone learned the truth, it would destroy them.
Vesper had known of this secret, and Pietro's death was no accident. It was deliberate. The message was clear: Some secrets should never be kept.
Dante Russo was the first to learn of the murder. The news spread quickly through his inner circle, and the devastation was palpable. Pietro had been more than just an adviser—he had been a father figure to Dante, a constant presence in his life since his father's passing. The pain of losing him was raw and immediate, but what hit Dante harder was the knowledge that someone in his own family—someone with intimate knowledge of their darkest secrets—had been killed without mercy.
"Who did this?" Dante's voice trembled with rage when he heard the news, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. The suspicion was immediate: the De Lucas were behind it. They had to be. But the questions piled up. Why Pietro? Why now?
Valerio, who had heard the news just moments later, was caught between the rising fear in Dante's voice and his own turmoil. He had always known that Vesper's kills were methodical, precise, and merciless—but this? This was different. The families had always been on edge, but now there was a new player in the game, and Valerio had no idea what kind of storm it would bring.
The death of Pietro Russo was more than just the loss of a trusted adviser. It was the unveiling of a truth long buried, and with it, the family's darkest secret. And for Leona, for Valerio, for everyone caught in the crossfire, the world was about to shift in ways they couldn't yet understand.
The Forgotten Name
The Russo estate felt colder than usual, even in the heavy Sicilian summer. A stillness had settled across its walls, as if the air itself was waiting—breathless, watchful.
Mrs. Russo stood in the marble foyer, fingers twitching restlessly at her side. Her husband's voice echoed through the hallway as he came down the stairs, coat thrown over his arm, jaw locked in a grim expression.
"He didn't die for nothing," he said firmly, looking at her. "Pietro was loyal. To me. To you. He was keeping something. We'll find out what it was."
Mrs. Russo nodded, but her heart was sinking. Pietro had been part of the family longer than most blood relatives. He had been there when her father died. He had been there when she lost her child. And now… he was gone, executed without mercy.
They said it was Vesper. But Mrs. Russo knew. Vesper didn't kill without purpose.
They arrived at Pietro's home just past dusk, the air still heavy with grief and smoke. It hadn't been tampered with yet—no police, no underbosses or curious family members sniffing around. Mr. Russo made sure of that. He had sealed the place off the moment he heard.
They didn't speak much as they moved through the old man's house. The silence between them wasn't hostile—it was heavy, reverent. They searched everything, room after room. Desks were overturned, closets emptied. Drawers pulled out, pages flipped, documents scanned with sharp, desperate eyes.
Pietro was always meticulous. Everything he kept was categorized, stored, and archived with almost religious care. But there was nothing. No confessions, no accounts, no notes. Just files. Ledgers. Old letters from the early years of the family's rise.
But then, as Mr. Russo cracked open the last of the file drawers in Pietro's study, tucked beneath a stack of dusty land deeds and pension documents, something unusual caught his eye.
A thin, weathered envelope, sealed but unmarked.
He opened it without hesitation.
Inside was a folded certificate. Paper worn soft with time. Mrs. Russo stepped beside him, her eyes narrowing as she leaned over his shoulder to read.
Birth Certificate
Name: Camilia Russo
Date of Birth: 9th April, 1998
Mother: Isabella Russo
Father: Alessandro Russo
She blinked once. Then again. Her heart gave a sudden jolt. No. That… that couldn't be right.
"That's the same date…" she murmured. "That's the same date our first child was born."
Alessandro didn't say anything at first. His jaw clenched, a shadow passing through his eyes.
"My father told me… he said the child was a boy. That he had to take him away, raise him elsewhere. Because… because the heir had to be trained properly. Because we weren't fit to raise him with all the war going on. He said it was a necessary sacrifice."
Mrs. Russo staggered back a step, breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she held the paper, reading and rereading the name written across it.
Camilia.
A girl.
Not a boy.
She looked up, confusion and dread turning her stomach. "Why would he lie? Why would he say it was a son when—"
"Because he wanted the child gone," Mr. Russo muttered. "And he knew we'd never let a daughter be taken."
Mrs. Russo's breath hitched. "He didn't want the bloodline to go through a girl."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
All this time, she had mourned a son. Imagined his face, wondered where he was—who he'd become. She had made peace with the story her father told her. Believed it because believing anything else would have destroyed her.
But this… this changed everything.
They hadn't lost a son.
They had lost a daughter.
A daughter their own blood had stolen from them, lied about, erased.
And Pietro… Pietro had known.
Mrs. Russo's fingers pressed tightly against the certificate, her vision blurring with tears.
"She's out there," she whispered. "She's not dead. He would've kept a record only if she was alive. If he had found her."
"And now he's dead," Mr. Russo added grimly, eyes locked on the paper. "Vesper killed him—for this."
Mrs. Russo turned to him. "Then Vesper knows."
They stood there for a long moment, silent in the weight of it all.
"She has to be found," she said quietly. "Not because of the family, not because of legacy—but because she's ours. She deserves the truth. And she deserves to know who took everything from her."
Alessandro nodded, but there was a deep storm brewing behind his eyes. A reckoning.
"She may already be part of this," he said. "You don't just hide from the world forever. If she knows what Pietro knew—if she knows who took her, and why…"
Mrs. Russo's breath caught again. "You think she might be the reason he's dead?"
"No." He shook his head. "But I think someone killed Pietro because he knew where she was."
And just like that, the hunt for the truth began—not just for Vesper, but for a daughter thought to be dead.
A daughter named Camilia Russo.