Z

The music box was inside a storage unit three miles from where I grew up.

Nicholas hated that.

He hated the storage facility.

He hated the narrow corridors.

He hated the security cameras.

He especially hated the fact that I had secretly rented the unit under my mother’s maiden name.

“You’ve had this for six years?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And I didn't know.”

“It’s almost like spouses can keep secrets.”

He gave me a look.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Too soon?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Luca walked behind us carrying a flashlight.

He appeared to be enjoying this far more than he should have.

The unit contained everything I couldn't bring myself to throw away after my mother died.

Christmas ornaments.

School yearbooks.

My father's winter coat.

A broken lamp.

Three boxes labeled KITCHEN that contained absolutely nothing from a kitchen.

At the back sat a small wooden chest.

My hands began shaking before I touched it.

Nicholas noticed.

This time, he didn't reach for me.

He waited.

That somehow made it harder.

I opened the chest.

The music box was wrapped in one of my father's old shirts.

Dark blue flannel.

I pressed it to my face for one second.

It no longer smelled like him.

Time had taken even that.

Nicholas crouched beside me.

“Take your time.”

I almost snapped at him.

Then I realized he meant it.

So I did.

Eventually, I unwrapped the box.

It was walnut, polished smooth, with a brass moon inlaid into the lid.

Nicholas examined it without touching.

“You said there's a false bottom.”

“Yes.”

I turned the winding key.

The old melody started.

Clair de Lune.

My father played it whenever he couldn't sleep.

The sound filled the cold storage unit.

And suddenly I was thirteen again.

Dad sitting beside me on our porch.

His hand resting on the box.

“If anyone ever tells you to break this,” he had said, “don't.”

At the time, I thought he was being sentimental.

Now I understood.

“He told me not to force it,” I whispered.

Nicholas leaned closer.

“Maybe it doesn’t open by force.”

I examined the brass moon.

There was a tiny groove around the edge.

I pressed it.

Nothing.

Turned it.

Nothing.

Then I remembered something.

“Dad used to stop the song before the last note.”

Nicholas watched me rewind the key.

I counted the melody.

Just before the final note, I pressed the moon.

Click.

The bottom released.

None of us moved.

Inside was a flash drive.

A folded piece of paper.

And an old photograph.

My father.

Antonio Moretti.

Victor Moretti.

And Nicholas.

Nicholas couldn't have been older than twelve.

I looked at him.

“You knew my father.”

His face had gone pale.

“I met him twice.”

“You said you found out who I was before we met.”

“I did.”

“But you remembered him.”

“Not his last name.”

I wanted to believe him.

I wasn't sure whether that was because it was true or because part of me desperately wanted one corner of our marriage left untouched.

I unfolded the letter.

My father's handwriting covered both sides.

Sofia,

If you are reading this, then something has happened to me, Antonio, or both.

My vision blurred.

Nicholas quietly took my hand.

This time, I let him.

I continued.

Do not trust Victor Moretti.

And do not assume Antonio Moretti is dead simply because the world tells you he is.

Nicholas sucked in a breath.

My father had written those words seven years before Antonio’s supposed murder.

The letter continued.

There are things men like us convince ourselves we do for family. We call them protection. Most of the time, they are fear wearing a noble coat.

I looked at Nicholas.

He looked away.

Dad had known men like him too well.

The drive contains records of Victor's financial network and evidence that he has been working against his brother. It also contains something more important: proof of who ordered my death if I do not survive long enough to expose him myself.

My hands shook.

I stopped reading.

Nicholas whispered, “You don't have to continue.”

“Yes, I do.”

The final paragraph was shorter.

Sofia, none of this belongs to you. Do not inherit our war. Give the truth to someone you trust and walk away. Live an ordinary life. Fall in love with a good man. Have children. Be happy.

A sound escaped my throat.

Not quite a sob.

Nicholas released my hand.

Maybe he thought those words excluded him.

Maybe they did.

I finished.

Whatever happens, remember that the sins of the men around you are not yours to carry.

Love, Dad.

For a long time, only the music box made noise.

Then Nicholas said, “He deserved better.”

I wiped my eyes.

“So did I.”

“I know.”

I looked at the flash drive.

“Let's see what’s on it.”

Luca pulled out a laptop disconnected from any network.

“Already prepared.”

I stared.

“Do all mafia men travel with paranoid computers?”

“Only the organized ones.”

Nicholas almost smiled.

The drive was encrypted.

But beneath it in the compartment was a six-digit number.

My birthday.

The files opened.

Hundreds of payments appeared.

Names.

Dates.

Bank transfers.

Photographs.

Audio recordings.

Victor Moretti’s entire hidden empire.

Then Luca opened a folder labeled A.M.

There were two videos.

The first showed Antonio Moretti arguing with Victor in what looked like an office.

The timestamp was three days before Antonio's supposed murder.

“You’re poisoning everything we built,” Antonio said.

Victor laughed.

“You built a kingdom and became embarrassed by the crown.”

“I’m getting my family out.”

“You don't have a family without this.”

The video ended.

Nicholas stared at the screen.

Luca opened the second file.

My father appeared.

Alive.

Terrified.

He was recording himself.

“If you're seeing this, Victor discovered what I copied.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Antonio has agreed to disappear. He thinks removing himself will prevent a civil war.”

Nicholas whispered, “He staged it.”

Antonio had planned his own death.

Just like his son.

My father continued.

“But Victor knows. I don't know how.”

The video shook.

“If Antonio disappears, Victor takes control. Nicholas becomes leverage.”

Nicholas went very still.

“He knew about me.”

My father looked directly into the camera.

“If anything happens to me, Victor Moretti ordered it.”

Then the screen went black.

I stared at Nicholas.

There it was.

Proof.

My father hadn't died in an accident.

He had been murdered.

Nicholas reached toward me.

Before he touched me, a gunshot exploded outside the storage unit.

Luca pushed us both down.

Another shot hit the metal door.

Nicholas pulled me behind the wooden chest.

“Stay low.”

Footsteps thundered in the corridor.

Luca moved toward the entrance.

Someone outside shouted, “We only want the drive!”

Nicholas looked at me.

I closed my hand around it.

“No.”

“Sofia.”

“This is why my father died.”

“I know.”

“They are not taking it.”

His eyes held mine.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

It was the first time Nicholas had trusted my choice without trying to make it for me.

The realization came at the worst possible moment.

More gunfire erupted.

Luca cursed.

Nicholas shoved the laptop beneath a cabinet.

Then my phone rang.

Emma.

I answered immediately.

“Emma?”

A man’s voice replied.

“Hello, Sofia.”

Every muscle in Nicholas’s body froze.

He heard it.

So did Luca.

Nicholas whispered one word.

“Father.”

The man on the phone laughed softly.

“Hello, son.”

Antonio Moretti was alive.

And he had my sister.