Chapter 1 - The Weight of V.D.The single fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed like an angry hornet as I stared down at the kitchen counter, my heart hammering against my ribs. V.D. Two microscopic, interlocking letters etched right beside the silver clasp.
For six months, I had worn this necklace against my skin, believing it was a token of pure, unblemished affection from a man who wore his gentleness like a shield. Adrien had slipped it over my head with trembling hands, whispering about family legacies, ancient silver vines, and how it felt like it had always belonged on me. But it didn't belong to Adrien at all. It belonged to Victor.
The silence of my Wicker Park apartment felt suffocating. The radiator hissed a rhythmic, mocking beat, reminding me of the dark, imposing silhouette of the man who had whispered those five words in the hallway of the Lincoln Park mansion: “Wrong brother, cara mia.”
Why would Adrien steal his older brother’s family heirloom—or worse, take it without permission—and present it to me as his own? And more terrifyingly, why had he engineered that exact moment at dinner, orchestrating the introduction so Victor would look across the table and see me wearing his personal property? It hadn't been an accident. Adrien had watched us. He had watched Victor’s eyes lock onto the pendant, waiting for the precise second the cold mask of the older Duca brother would crack.
I grabbed my phone from the counter, my fingers trembling so badly I dropped it twice before managing to unlock the screen. I scrolled through our message history—months of sweet "good morning" texts, gentle check-ins about my yoga studio classes, promises of a quiet future together. Every single word now looked like a carefully constructed script. A camouflage designed to hide whatever cold, calculating game the younger Duca brother was playing.
Should I call Victor? The very thought sent a violent shiver down my spine. Victor Duca didn't feel like the kind of man you called casually. He was quiet, heavy, and dangerous in the way a loaded gun resting on a table is dangerous—motionless, but capable of devastating destruction if disturbed. Yet, compared to Adrien’s quiet, deceptive facade, Victor’s warning felt strangely honest. He hadn't lied to me. He had told me to take it off.
Before I could talk myself out of it, a sharp, urgent knock rattled my front door.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. I crept across the hardwood floor, keeping my footsteps light, and peered through the peephole.
Adrien stood in the hallway. The gentle, apologetic smile I had fallen in love with six months ago was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and hollow in the dim stairwell light, and his fist was raised to knock again.
