Silence
Aria – POV
(Back to Present)
“If he was back, then someone wanted me dead before I remembered why.”
There are two rules in this family.
One: Never ask a question you’re not prepared to answer yourself.
Two: If someone comes for your life, you smile like you invited them.
I’ve broken both.
It’s been twelve hours since the engagement party went into lockdown. Eleven since I saw Silas kill two men without blinking. Ten since I found the bullet hole in my dress sleeve — less than an inch from my shoulder.
And just two since I told myself to stop shaking.
I knock once before entering my father’s office — no courtesy, just noise to let him know I’m coming.
He’s pouring wine, of course. Red, old, expensive — the kind that tastes like blood and memory.
“Someone tried to shoot me,” I say calmly. “You want to tell me why?”
Don Vittorio doesn’t look up.
“The dress looks better without sleeves,” he says instead.
I don’t laugh.
His eyes flick to me over the rim of his glass. “You’re not hurt.”
“I could’ve been.”
“But you’re not.”
I grit my teeth. “Who were they?”
He shrugs, like it’s weather.
“Scare tactic. A rival family trying to make noise.” He takes another sip. “Enemies get louder when we look united. Your engagement makes us look… very united.”
“Dante and I barely tolerate each other.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s still better than most marriages in this world.”
I step forward. “So you’re just going to do nothing?”
“I’m going to pour myself another drink. You’re going to let the men handle it.”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you still play dress-up in my world.”
I stare at him. The same man who kissed my forehead the night my mother died — then ordered the cleanup before dawn.
I say nothing as I leave.
Because if he’s lying — and he is — I need to find the truth myself.
The security office is tucked behind the west hall, buried in tech and silence. No one stops me when I walk in. They know better.
I dismiss the guards with a lie and a smile.
And then I sit down, load the feed, and scrub back through the footage.
Minute by minute.
Room by room.
I don’t even flinch when I see the explosion hit the outer gate. People screaming. Men in black storming through with automatic rifles.
The guards don’t react until the third shot.
But Silas — he moves before the first.
I freeze the screen.
There he is — shadow through smoke, clean kill, blade in the spine, bullet to the chest. Silent. Brutal. Efficient.
And alone.
He took them down before the guards even realized what was happening.
Because he knew.
He knew they were coming.
And he didn’t tell anyone.
I follow him that night.
Not like a stalker — like a woman with unfinished business.
He slips out of the estate just before midnight. Unarmed. No backup. I trail him in my car until he stops outside an old stone chapel on the cliffs — barely still standing, abandoned long before I was born.
He steps inside. Doesn’t even check if he’s being followed.
I wait exactly three minutes before I enter.
The air smells like burnt wax and old prayers. Candles line the altar, half-lit, their glow flickering like a warning.
He’s there.
Kneeling. Head bowed. As if there’s a god left for men like him.
“You knew,” I say, loud enough to echo.
Silas doesn’t turn.
“You let me walk into that party. You knew I’d be a target.”
Silence.
“Who sent them?” I demand.
Nothing.
“Say something.”
He finally moves — stands slowly. Turns just enough for me to see his profile. There’s blood on his sleeve.
Not fresh.
His hand reaches into his pocket — and he tosses something onto the pew between us.
A ring.
My heart stops.
Silver. De Luca crest.
One I haven’t seen since my mother’s death.
I pick it up slowly. It’s cold. Heavy. Dried blood along the inner band.
I look up — but he’s already gone.
The door swings closed behind him with a thud that feels like a goodbye.
Or a warning.
I haven’t thought about my mother’s private storage room in years.
Not since the fire.
Not since they told me everything she owned was either donated, burned, or lost to time.
But nothing is ever really lost in a De Luca house.
It’s just hidden better.
I wait until the estate sleeps. Until the cameras tilt like tired eyes. Until the guards switch posts and yawn into their radios.
Then I slip through the side hall, barefoot.
It’s the same path I took as a teenager — back when I thought breaking curfew was rebellion and sneaking to the rooftop counted as danger.
The marble feels colder now. Like it remembers.
My mother’s old wing was sealed off after her death. Red-tagged. Reinforced. Don Vittorio’s orders.
But I know the bypass codes. I memorized them when I was seventeen and angry.
I slide the panel open behind the library bookshelf, and there it is:
A narrow staircase, steep and spiraling, leading into what used to be her private dressing quarters.
And beyond that — hidden behind a mirror etched with saints — a small black vault with no lock.
Just a fingerprint scanner.
Mine still works.
Because I still have her blood.
The room smells like lavender oil and old grief.
There are boxes covered in velvet. Jewelry. Folded letters with my name in her handwriting. Photos of us I don’t remember taking.
And then — at the very bottom of one chest — a sealed white envelope.
My name. In ink.
Aria.
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. And it wasn’t an accident.
My hands tremble.
Inside is a small USB stick, paper-thin and cold like glass.
I plug it into my burner phone and close my eyes.
A video file opens.
The image is grainy, flickering — shot in secret, probably from a hidden security cam.
My mother is in her study, whispering into the dark. She looks terrified.
Not elegant. Not composed.
Terrified.
She holds a glass of whiskey in one hand, something tight in the other — a rosary, I think.
Then she whispers, shakily:
“It was Vittorio.”
“He wants me gone.”
“And he’s watching Silas.”
She swallows hard.
“He knows I’ve spoken to the wrong people. I don’t know how much time I have. But if anything happens to me—don’t trust the version of the story they give you.”
She stares at the camera for a moment. Her lips tremble.
“You’re stronger than you know, Aria. But don’t be naïve. You were born into a kingdom built on blood. If you want to survive it—”
Her voice breaks.
“—you’ll have to burn it down.”
The screen cuts to black.
I sit in silence, the walls of the room closing in.
My throat is dry.
My heartbeat isn’t steady anymore.
Because this changes everything.
She knew.
She knew what they were planning. She knew who was watching. And she knew Silas was a part of it — somehow.
But the worst part?
She didn’t stop it.
And neither did he.