The Woman Who Walked Out Of The Flames

The crystal chandeliers above us seemed to dim as Adrian’s words echoed through the silent restaurant.

Ettore Bellandi, the ruthless patriarch of the New York underworld, stared at his son.

“Are you telling me,” Ettore repeated, his voice barely a whisper, “that your mother didn’t die in that fire?”

Adrian closed his eyes. The composed, untouchable heir looked suddenly exhausted.

“She didn’t die, Dad,” Adrian said heavily. “She set the fire.”

Ettore stumbled backward, his hip hitting the edge of our table.

“Caterina?” Ettore choked out. “Why would my wife burn our country house?”

“To kill Aunt Giulia,” Adrian answered.

The color drained completely from Ettore’s face.

I stood frozen, gripping my silver serving tray. The sweet, elderly woman who taught me how to make pasta in Queens had been the target of a mafia assassination. By her own sister-in-law.

“Why?” Ettore breathed.

“Because Aunt Giulia found the bank statements,” Adrian explained, his voice tight. “Mom wasn’t just a loyal wife, Dad. For years, she had been siphoning millions from the family accounts. She was building her own syndicate. Working with the Russians.”

Ettore shook his head in absolute denial. “No. Caterina loved me.”

“She loved power,” Adrian corrected. “When Aunt Giulia confronted her, Mom locked her in the basement and set the house ablaze. She threw her own wedding ring into the ashes to fake her death, so she could disappear and run her new empire from the shadows.”

“And you knew?” Ettore’s voice cracked with a terrifying betrayal.

“I figured it out three years ago,” Adrian confessed. “I’ve been hunting her ever since.”

Ettore looked like his heart was breaking in half.

“And Giulia?” Ettore asked, his eyes filling with tears.

“Mom thought Giulia burned,” Adrian said. “But Giulia escaped. She went into hiding to protect you. She knew if Mom found out she survived, Mom would come back and kill us all.”

My mind was reeling. Mrs. Conti—Giulia—had lived in poverty for nine years just to keep her brother safe.

“We have to get to Giulia,” Ettore commanded, his grief instantly hardening into lethal resolve. “If Caterina is still alive, and she finds out Giulia is in Queens...”

Adrian nodded, reaching into his jacket for his phone.

But as he pulled his hand out, the lapel of his suit shifted.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Adrian,” I whispered.

He stopped, looking at me.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, pointing to a small, silver object pinned to the inside lining of his expensive jacket.

It was a silver saint’s medallion.

Adrian looked down at it. “My mother gave this to me when I was a child. Why?”

My hands began to shake so violently I dropped the serving tray. It clattered loudly against the marble floor.

“Because my mother had the exact same medallion,” I breathed. “And she was wearing it the night she was killed in a hit-and-run accident five years ago.”

Adrian went completely still.

He stared at me, a terrifying realization washing over his face.

Before he could speak, the heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open.

Three men in dark trench coats walked in.

They weren’t customers. And they weren’t Ettore’s men.

One of Ettore’s bodyguards, a man named Carlo who had worked for the family for twenty years, suddenly drew his weapon.

But Carlo didn’t aim at the men walking through the door.

He pressed the barrel of his gun directly against the back of Ettore’s head.

Carlo smiled, his eyes cold and dead.