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Frederic Capello is a dark-haired man with tanned skin, heavy features, and a strong jawline. I shake my head, seeing zero family resemblance. Millions of people have green eyes. It’s nothing unique.
I scroll through Google Images for pictures of his sons and pause at one that makes my stomach flip.
Gregor Capello has the same long curls as mine, with eyes the exact shade of green. He’s one of the twin sons who died in the massacre, but that doesn’t mean a thing.
Lots of people have curly dark hair and green eyes, right?
My breath shallows.
It can’t be true.
But Mom spent her entire life paranoid that someone was tracking us. It’s the reason why we never stayed in the same home for longer than a year. She was terrified that someone would take me away from her.
A recent memory hits me like a slap.
Dominic.
The man Roman left to guard me knew Mom’s name and said he knew my father. He said the old man never stopped searching for me and that his uncle helped to keep us hidden. At the time, I dismissed his words as bullshit, but what if he’d been telling the truth?
Before Dominic tried to kill me, he told me I was marked for death the moment my father died. Then there was something else.
Sam sends his regards.
I turn my attention to the phone and scroll through the pictures to find an image similar to Gregor Capello’s. His hair is shorter, and his features are harsher, but there’s no mistaking the family resemblance.
It’s Samson Capello.
What if Samson was Sam?
What if Samson survived the massacre and wanted to get rid of anyone who stood to inherit his father’s millions?
The phone rings once more. This time, I answer.
“Hello?” I croak.
“Emberly, it’s Martina Mancini from the Di Marco Law group. Please, don’t hang up,” she says.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Can you meet me today?”
I swallow. “No.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“About what?”
“It’s about your inheritance.”
My stomach twists and churns. Roman told me all about the man who betrayed his father, stole from the Montesano family and framed him for murder. After everything Roman did to help me, I can’t possibly claim this blood money.
“I don’t want it,” I rasp.
She pauses for several moments before saying, “Will you at least meet me for coffee? I’d like to fill you in on a few details.”
“Where?”
“My firm’s address is?—”
