Chapter 4 Unapproved break

Aria

I hadn't planned on saying yes.

But then again, when it comes to my mother, saying "no" never really meant much.

After the hospital, she swooped in with her practiced persuasion the soft tone, the worried eyes, the perfectly timed guilt trip. You could've died, Aria... You're all I have left... Just spend some time at home... It's just a break, not the end of your career...

It was never a question. Not really.

So here I was, back in the deluca mansion.

Marble floors. Endless glass. Silence so thick it echoed.

You'd think I'd feel comfort. Nostalgia. Safety.

All I felt was cold.

She tried to fill the space between us with frivolous things.

Spa days. Wardrobe makeovers. Tea in the sunroom. Endless talk about facials and dating and how she was already married at my age.

I smiled. I nodded. I played along.

But as soon as she left me alone, I slipped upstairs to my old bedroom untouched since I was seventeen and opened the drawer beneath my desk.

It looked like an ordinary antique writing desk. But if you slid the second drawer just right, it triggered a latch.

Click.

The bottom dropped open, revealing the secret compartment I'd built years ago.

Folders. Maps. Notes. Photos. My life's real work hidden in plain sight.

I'd worked on Dad's case here. Slept with it under my bed. Ate meals while rewatching grainy surveillance footage. Every spare second of my youth went into chasing the shadows around his death.

Virelli.

He'd pulled the trigger, sure but he didn't do it alone. No one at his level ever did.

That's what never sat right with me.

Why didn't he rat out his accomplices for a lighter sentence? Why were there no financial trails? No leaks? No revenge attempts?

Either he worked completely alone... or someone powerful had helped him stay protected.

Some of my earliest leads documents that mysteriously vanished, tipped-off witnesses, a bribe trail that went cold kept circling back to my father's brothers.

Uncles. By blood, maybe.

But I'd never trusted them.

And after all those leads dried up, I paused. Because betrayal from family? That's not something you can un-know.

Now, apparently, I was expected to mingle with these people.

My mother insisted on dragging me to one of her infamous weekend gatherings some blend of family reunion and political networking disguised as a wine-and-cheese affair.

"You can't wear that," she said from my doorway, hands on her hips.

I glanced down at my black jeans and fitted blouse. "What's wrong with this?"

"You look like you're going to interrogate someone, not socialize."

"Maybe I am."

She sighed dramatically and tossed a dress onto my bed. "Wear this."

I didn't argue. What was the point?

The Deluca Estate garden was glittering with white lights and imported orchids.

Laughter floated through the air like perfume. Jazz music hummed from a quartet near the fountain. My mother moved through the crowd like a queen returning to her court.

I followed a few steps behind, ignoring the people who called my name like we were old friends.

"Aria Deluca , is that you? You've grown up so much"

"Your mother told me you're a detective now! Just like your father, bless his soul"

"I remember when you were just a baby, always climbing trees and"

I nodded. Smiled. Escaped with a glass of something strong from the nearest waiter tray.

Chris would've laughed if he saw me now.

The only thing worse than being here... was pretending I belonged.

I was just about to retreat to the far end of the garden when I saw him.

Standing by the koi pond.

Talking. Laughing. Sipping champagne.

The flute glass looked comically elegant in his hand the same hand that once held the gun that murdered my father.

My heart stopped.

Dominic.

No mistake. No hallucination. No illusion.

Dominic Virelli my father's killer was standing thirty feet from me like he belonged here.

I blinked. Took a step forward. My stomach turned.

He was surrounded by a small cluster of well-dressed men and women my uncles among them.

My vision narrowed. My pulse pounded.

What the actual hell is going on?

He wasn't limping. He didn't look sick. Not the way he'd claimed in court.

No oxygen tubes. No wheelchair. No signs of terminal decline.

He looked... healthy. Younger than I remembered. Smirking. Effortlessly charming. That same smug arrogance in his eyes.

He met my gaze.

For just a second.

Then raised his glass.

To me.

I nearly dropped mine.

I turned away before I made a scene slipping through the maze of guests and into the nearest hallway of the estate.

My knees were shaking.

The room spun.

And just like that, I knew: He planned this.

This wasn't a coincidence.

He knew I'd be here.

He wanted me to see him.