Chapter 3: The Black Box

I stared at the note in my hands, fingers clenched tighter than I realized.

"Check the black box."

It wasn't a metaphor. Lorenzo didn't do metaphors. He spoke in commands and warnings — like his life was a series of loaded guns, and every sentence might detonate something.

The penthouse fell quiet again. Too quiet. Like the walls were listening.

I moved toward the bookshelf — the same one he'd once snapped at me for even glancing at. "Not that shelf," he'd said. "Ever." No explanation. Just a command. That was Lorenzo.

I scanned the shelves now. Top row: leather-bound editions that didn't look worn. Middle: classic fiction, untouched. Bottom: nothing.

Then, the right side.

A row of books stood crooked — like someone had pulled one out and shoved it back in a hurry.

I slid my fingers behind them.

Click.

The shelf gave a mechanical groan, and a narrow compartment opened behind it. My heart skittered. Inside was a sleek matte-black metal box, no larger than a shoebox.

There were no markings. No combination lock. Just a fingerprint reader.

I froze.

Had he expected me to find this before he left?

I pressed my thumb to the scanner anyway. It didn't beep. Didn't flash red.

It opened.

My blood turned to ice.

Inside, there was:

A burner phone, still powered off.

A flash drive.

A photograph, folded in half.

And a sealed envelope with my name on it — again. Just "Camille."

No endearment. No affection.

But this time, the handwriting trembled.

I opened the photo first.

It was of Lorenzo.

But he wasn't alone.

Standing beside him was a man I'd never seen before — tall, lean, tattooed hands, one gold ring on his pinky finger. They looked like they were arguing. No smiles. Just tension.

There was a date written on the back. Two weeks ago.

So Lorenzo had been meeting people behind his family's back.

And this guy? He wasn't De Luca.

The envelope came next. Inside was a single page, hastily written.

"If something happens to me, it won't be because of the cops or the Bratva or even my father.""It'll be someone no one sees coming. Someone close. Maybe even you."

I froze.

Me?

I kept reading.

"But I trust you, Camille. Not because I want to. Because I have to.""You're the only person in this world who doesn't owe the De Luca name a damn thing."

The words landed like a punch.

I wanted to scoff. He trusted me? The same man who hired me to fake a marriage and never looked me in the eye?

But still… my hands were shaking.

The burner phone buzzed to life the moment I powered it on.

No contacts. No apps. Just one unread message from an unknown number:

"YOU'RE BEING WATCHED. DON'T TRUST THE SECURITY."

My throat tightened.

This wasn't just a disappearance.

It was a setup.

And I was in the middle of it.

A sharp knock on the penthouse door nearly made me drop the phone.

Three taps. Slow. Deliberate.

I crossed the room and peered through the peephole.

A man stood there — not one of the cops from earlier. He wore a tailored black suit, no tie, sunglasses at night. The kind of man who didn't need weapons to be dangerous.

I didn't open the door.

"Camille Rivera," he said calmly. His voice was muffled, but I heard every syllable. "My name is Marco. I work for your husband's uncle. He sent me to escort you."

"Escort me where?" I asked.

"To safety."

Right. Because a mafia wife was always safest when escorted by strangers in the dark.

"No thanks," I said. "I'm safe here."

He paused. "Miss Rivera, this place isn't secure. If Lorenzo left anything behind, you're in danger just by standing in that room."

That, I already knew.

He continued, "You have two options. Open the door. Or we'll open it for you."

The phone buzzed again.

"RUN. NOW."

I looked around. I didn't know who was texting me. I didn't know who Marco really worked for. But I did know one thing:

Lorenzo had planned for this.

He knew I'd be alone. Knew they'd come for me. And he'd left me a warning — and maybe, just maybe, a way out.

I shoved the flash drive and photo into my coat pocket, grabbed the burner, and bolted through the kitchen exit, not bothering to shut the back door quietly.

I didn't look back.

Because if I did, I'd start wondering what I'd just walked away from.

A trap?

Or the beginning of war?

End of Chapter 3