The house hadn’t woken up yet.

Curtains still drawn. Chandeliers unlit. The silence was thick, like it hadn’t recovered from the night before.

One of the guards found me just outside the library.

“The Don wants to see you,” he said, eyes lowered. “Now.”

I nodded, already knowing where I’d find him.

Vittorio’s study sat tucked behind the east wing, no one entered without purpose.

I opened the door slowly.

The room smelled like leather and something older. Something buried.

Books lined the walls, untouched. Their spines faded, their knowledge forgotten.

A single lamp glowed near the corner of his desk, casting gold across his hands.

He didn’t look up right away.

His fingers were clasped, elbows resting on the edge of the wood, like he was trying to hold himself together with just the weight of his palms.

I stepped inside, quiet.

No need to announce myself. He always knew when I was near.

Don Vittorio didn’t ask me to sit. He only motioned toward the chair across from his desk and waited until I did.

“I should have told you sooner,” he said quietly, almost to himself. That voice—the one that used to command rooms—was now wrapped in something fragile.

“About what?” I asked. My stomach tightened. My mind sprinted through every memory I had of this house, this name, this life. Something ancient and nervous coiled in my chest. He folded his hands together and looked down, not at me.

“About your real family,” he said. I froze. The room seemed to darken around the edges. My breath caught, but I forced it to stay calm.

“What are you saying?” I whispered. My voice felt small, far away. He met my eyes then—and didn’t blink.

“You were never a Morelli,” he said. “You were placed in my care when you were just a baby. You belong to the Corvatti family.”

The name struck like a match against dry kindling. Every thought burst into flame. I heard the words, but they didn’t settle in my mind. They crashed.

The Corvattis. A name that meant power, bloodlines, and a legacy older than this city’s skyline.

“The Corvattis?” I breathed. “The ones who rule everything?”

He nodded once. That was all it took. “Yes,” he said. “Your real name is Aria Corvatti. Daughter of Matteo Corvatti. You were hidden for your protection.”

The walls of the office blurred. My hands trembled in my lap. I tried to find myself—my old self—but she was already unraveling. Hidden. Protected. All this time, I thought I was nothing more than an obligation. A whisper in a home that never wanted me. But I was the blood of the family people feared. I was born into a legacy.

Vittorio reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope. My name was written on it in ink I recognized.

“They’re here to take you home,” he said.

I opened my mouth, too many thoughts fighting to become words. But before I could speak, the door flew open with a crack like a whip.

Gianna stormed in, her robe trailing like she still believed she ruled this house. Alessia was at her side, already fuming.

“Why is the Corvatti car outside?” Gianna snapped. “You didn’t say we were expecting guests.” Her eyes darted to the envelope, then to my face. Suspicion turned to panic faster than I’d ever seen it.

I stood slowly. The chair didn’t creak. My pulse didn’t race. I looked at them the way you look at people who were once thunder and now just background noise.

“No,” I said. “You don’t.” I stepped past Gianna, close enough to see her flinch. “They’re here for me.”