The Lies They Told in Sicily

“Eliza, all the information we could get is here.”

Inside the car, Paulo handed me a thick stack of files. The data was pitifully sparse, but then, this was probably all Mark wanted me to see.

Lillian White was nineteen years old, ten years younger than Mark. Her parents were both dead, and she had grown up in an orphanage in Palermo. Her social connections were simple and limited.

“The Don treats her… differently,” Paulo murmured in my ear.

Could it be that Lillian was Mark’s true love?

I bit my nails, lost in thought. Mark had clawed his way to where he was now. By this point, he had no weak spots. He was young, ruthless, and brilliant. I had watched him build his family into the empire it was today, so I wasn’t sure whether seeking revenge on him was right or wrong.

It was right because I had become his confidante, trusted as deeply as his own underboss.

It was wrong because I hadn’t anticipated how rapidly his power would grow, making revenge far harder than I had imagined.

“The Don said…” Paulo patted my shoulder and said, “He wants your risotto.”

If Mark wanted it, I had no choice but to cook.

I told the driver, “Turn around. Let’s go.”

The villa where Lillian lived was just one of Mark’s many properties—ordinary compared to the rest. The place I was heading to was his true home, a quietly luxurious cliffside estate.

I carried the ingredients inside alone, preparing to cook and simmer the broth. Mark had surely eaten at countless Michelin-starred restaurants, so why would he like my cooking? Yet every time I cooked, he would stand at the kitchen doorway, eyes locked on me. That gaze was exactly like a husband waiting for his wife to return home. Every time I thought of it, my stomach churned.

This time, I was slicing onions when he appeared silently behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I hadn’t noticed him at all.

“Don’t touch me. My hands are dirty,” I said instinctively.

He chuckled softly, resting his chin in the hollow of my shoulder, his breath brushing my ear. “Oh? Dirty? Let me see.”

I ignored him and turned on the faucet. He naturally took my fingers in his hand, washing them with practiced ease.

Just as I was about to say something, his lips rained over my neck in a slow, teasing flurry.