19. Mia

Chapter 19

Mia

The penthouse feels like a maze of secrets, each room holding something Carlito doesn’t want me to see. After he left for a meeting with Leo late this morning, I found myself drawn back to his study.

The door had been left unlocked, and I told myself I wasn’t snooping—I was just... trying to understand.

Now, hours later, I’m sitting at his desk with the pile of documents spread out in front of me. The folder I found last night lies open, its contents arranged like a puzzle I don’t know how to solve. My hands tremble as I pick up one of the letters again, my father’s familiar signature glaring up at me.

Richard Caruso.

I trace the ink, the name Matteo Russo leaping off the page like a curse. This isn’t just business correspondence—it’s a warning. My father’s carefully worded letter discusses a property dispute, calling it a “delicate matter” that needs “immediate resolution.”

I flip to another page, my mother’s handwriting scrawled in hurried lines: “Richard, I don’t trust him. Be careful.”

My chest tightens as I stare at the words. My parents—my loving, ordinary parents—weren’t ordinary at all. They were involved in something dangerous, something they tried to shield me from my entire life.

The wave of nausea hits again, sharp and sudden. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady myself. It’s been happening for days now—this strange, uneasy feeling that I keep blaming on stress.

I shake it off and return to the papers, desperate for answers. The documents detail financial transactions, property deeds, and a tangled web of correspondence between my parents and Matteo Russo. But the pieces don’t quite fit together, leaving more questions than answers.

The faint creak of a door makes me jump. My heart pounds as Carlito steps into the study, his dark eyes narrowing when they land on the scattered papers.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his tone calm but edged with suspicion.

I freeze, my hands hovering over the documents. “I was just—” I start, but the words catch in my throat. “I needed to know more. About them. About what’s happening.”

Carlito’s gaze sharpens, his expression unreadable as he steps closer. “You shouldn’t be going through those,” he says, his voice low.

“Why not?” I counter, standing to meet his gaze. “They’re my parents. This is my inheritance. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me the truth. But then he shakes his head, his expression hardening. “This isn’t something you need to worry about.”

I laugh bitterly, the sound cutting through the tense air. “Don’t patronize me, Carlito. My family’s past is tied to this, and now it’s putting all of us in danger. I deserve to know.”

“Mia,” he says softly, his tone almost pleading. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I snap. “From who? Matteo Russo? Your rivals? The truth?”

His silence speaks volumes, and my frustration boils over. “I can’t keep living like this,” I say, my voice trembling. “I can’t keep wondering what’s real and what you’re hiding from me.”

Carlito exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he runs a hand through his hair. “Mia, do you know what time it is? Try go get some rest,” he says finally, his voice weary. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning”

He turns and leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him.

As the silence settles, my phone buzzes on the desk. I glance down to see an unfamiliar number and a message that sends a chill through me: “You’re closer to the truth than you realize. I can tell you everything.”

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen. The words feel like a threat and a promise all at once, their weight pressing heavily against my chest. You’re closer to the truth than you realize. What truth? And who is this person claiming they can give it to me?

The number is untraceable—no name, no context. Just the message, stark and haunting against the glow of the phone.

I glance toward the closed door, Carlito’s words still ringing in my ears: “Go get some rest.” But rest feels impossible now. The pieces of the puzzle are scattered before me, and I’m desperate to make them fit.

The message is vague, but its timing is too precise to ignore. It’s as if this person—whoever they are—knew exactly when to reach me. Could it be the same man Carlito’s been trying to shield me from? The one behind Dario’s death?

A second message appears, the screen lighting up again:

“I know what Carlito won’t tell you. About your family. About Dario. About the property.”

My blood turns cold. Whoever this is, they know far more than they should. The mention of Dario twists the knife in my chest. Bianca’s raw grief, Carlito’s stony silence—both feel sharper now, more fragile.

I press the phone to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. There’s no way this message could have gotten through Carlito’s security—not without help. My thoughts race as I consider the possibilities. Could someone on the inside have passed it along? Or did they exploit a crack in the system, slipping through Carlito’s ironclad defenses?

The idea terrifies me. If they can reach me this easily, what else are they capable of?

I glance at the papers on the desk again, the name Matteo Russo taunting me from the page. The same name Carlito refuses to explain, the same man whose presence seems to hang like a shadow over everything that’s happened.

My phone buzzes a third time, and the message is shorter, more direct:

“You can’t trust him.”

My breath catches, and I slam the phone down on the desk. The accusation feels like a slap, and yet, deep down, I know I’ve already been questioning Carlito for days. His refusal to let me in, his cryptic answers, the way he looks at me as if he’s carrying a burden I’m not allowed to share—it all adds up to something I can’t ignore.

But can I trust the person sending these messages?

I stand and pace the room, my thoughts tangled in a web of fear and frustration. Carlito says he’s protecting me, but from what? And at what cost?

The phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look. I can’t. My head feels too heavy, my chest too tight. The nausea returns, sharper than before, and I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to pass.

I sink back into the chair, staring at the scattered documents as the phone continues to vibrate insistently. I know I’ll have to make a decision soon. But right now, all I can do is try to breathe.

The messages stop, but their weight lingers. My thoughts are a storm of questions and doubts as I hear footsteps approaching the door again. It’s Carlito again—and he doesn’t look happy.

The door creaks open, and Carlito steps inside. His eyes sweep over the room, landing on the scattered documents still on the desk. His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s holding back whatever storm is brewing inside him.

“Mia,” he says, his voice low but edged with tension. “We need to talk.”

I meet his gaze, my heart pounding. “About what?” I ask, trying to keep my tone steady.

“About this,” he says, gesturing to the papers. “I told you to leave it alone.”

“And I told you I deserve to know the truth,” I snap, standing to face him. “These are my parents, Carlito. This is my inheritance. You can’t keep shutting me out.”

His expression hardens. “I’m trying to protect you,” he says, his voice rising slightly. “This isn’t a game, Mia. The more you dig, the more dangerous this gets.”

“Dangerous for who?” I demand. “For me, or for you? What aren’t you telling me, Carlito?”

The silence between us is suffocating. He looks at me like he’s weighing whether or not to say something, but the wall goes up again, and I see the decision in his eyes.

“I can’t tell you,” he says finally, the words clipped and cold.

The frustration boils over, and I shove the papers toward him. “You think you’re protecting me by keeping me in the dark? You’re not. You’re just making me doubt everything—doubt you.”

His hand slams down on the desk, making me jump. “Don’t you get it, Mia?” he growls. “I would burn the entire world to the ground to keep you safe. But I can’t protect you if you don’t trust me.”

“And I can’t trust you if you keep lying to me!” I shout back, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

The air crackles with tension as we stare each other down, neither willing to back down. My breathing is shallow, my chest tight. The nausea I’ve been ignoring all day suddenly hits me like a tidal wave.

My knees buckle, and I reach for the desk to steady myself, but my vision blurs. “Carlito—” I manage to whisper before the world tilts sideways.

“Mia!” His voice is panicked as he catches me, his strong arms wrapping around me before I hit the ground.

The last thing I hear is the pounding of my heart and Carlito’s voice, low and desperate, calling my name before everything fades to black.