Chapter One | Uncle Alessandro

Chapter One | Uncle Alessandro

Marianne

I stared at the photograph in my mother’s hand, my brows pulling together. The man in the image looked like sin wrapped in an expensive black suit — tall, broad-shouldered, with long sleek black hair pushed back from a dangerously handsome face. His eyes were dark, piercing, like he could see through the camera and straight into whoever was looking.

“Who is that?” I asked.

Mom didn’t answer right away. She just kept smiling, a strange, dreamy look on her face that made my stomach twist.

“That,” she finally said, her voice soft, “is your Uncle Alessandro.”

I blinked. “My what?”

She turned the phone toward me again, almost reverently. “Your father’s younger brother. He’s been in Italy for years. But he’s coming here soon.”

I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “We’ve never heard a word about him. Not once. And now, two weeks after Dad dies, he suddenly wants to play family?”

Mom’s cheeks flushed deeper. “He’s very rich, Marianne. Powerful. He asked about you specifically.”

The words landed like ice in my chest. I stepped back, shaking my head. “I don’t care how rich he is. Where was he when Dad was rotting in that hospital bed? When we were drowning in medical bills?”

I grabbed my jacket, desperate to escape the conversation. I had piano lessons tonight, then a long shift at the store. Anything to avoid this.

“Marianne,” Mom called after me, her voice taking on that familiar tone. “Alessandro had nothing to do with your father’s choices. He wasn’t the one who drank and gambled away our lives.”

I froze at the door, my fingers tightening on the handle. The memory of Dad’s frail hand in mine, his last weak whisper — Help me, Maria — flashed behind my eyes. I swallowed hard, refusing to cry in front of her.

“You never loved him,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “Even when he was alive, you were always looking for something better. Someone richer and dangerous.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked back down at the photo on her phone with something close to hunger.

“Alessandro Santiago,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Don of the Black Titans. The most powerful man on this coast now. Handsome. Ruthless. Loaded.” Her eyes sparkled. “If I had chosen him instead of your father… we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

I turned around slowly, staring at her like she’d lost her mind.

“Mom… are you serious right now?”

She stepped closer, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost giddy.

“I’m in love, baby. Can you blame me?”

I shrugged her hands off, my heart pounding with a mix of anger, grief, and something dangerously close to unease.

“You’re delusional,” I muttered, heading for the door. “Stay away from that man. And keep him away from me.”

My brows furrowed in disappointment. I didn’t want to hear another word.

Something was seriously wrong with my mother, and if she couldn’t pull herself together, I wasn’t going to do it for her.

Without another glance, I stormed out of the house, heading straight for Mrs. Laurent’s studio. The walk helped clear my head, but only a little.

“Evening, Mrs. Laurent. Sorry I’m late,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Family shenanigans.”

The older woman patted my shoulder gently. “I understand, dear. You can take a break if you need to.”

I shook my head. “I really need this today.”

She didn’t push. After a quick cheek squeeze and a warm smile, she left me alone in the music room. “I’ll be in the nursery. Take your time.”

The moment my fingers touched the keys, the rest of the world faded. Music had always been my escape. For a little while, I could forget my father’s cold hand in the hospital, my mother’s strange obsession, and the mysterious uncle who had suddenly decided to appear now that Dad was gone.

But even as I played, flashes of that photo kept invading my mind. Alessandro Santiago. Long dark hair, sharp jaw, with eyes that looked like they could destroy kingdoms.

Why now? I thought bitterly. Where was he when we needed help?

I pushed the thoughts away and lost myself in the music for the next hour and a half.

By the time I arrived at the corner store for my night shift, I was already drained. Five long hours of fake smiles, wiping shelves, and ringing up customers followed. Every time my father’s face flashed in my mind, my chest tightened. I fought back the tears. I couldn’t afford to fall apart — this job was the only thing keeping us off the street. Mom had no income, and I refused to depend on her.

At 9 PM, I finally clocked out, legs aching and heart heavier than when I’d started.

The walk home felt endless. I kept hoping for a miracle — maybe a friend’s couch to crash on — but I knew I’d have to face my mother again. She was probably still drooling over that damn photo.

The moment I stepped inside, the rich aroma of boiling soup hit me making me frown. Mom never cooked dinner. That was always my job.

I was heading toward the kitchen when a firm knock sounded on the door.

My steps slowed. We rarely got visitors this late. Heart beating faster, I walked to the door and pulled it open.

My breath caught sharply in my throat when I saw who it was. He stood there like he owned the night itself.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly handsome in a black tailored coat that probably cost more than our rent. Long, sleek black hair brushed back from his face, a few strands falling forward. His eyes — dark, intense, and far too knowing — locked onto me immediately.

“Marianne,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like velvet dragged over gravel.

My breath caught in my chest. He knew my name.

Alessandro Santiago — my uncle, the Don — took one step inside, the door clicking shut behind him with terrifying finality. His gaze slowly dragged over me, assessing, almost… hungry.

“I’ve waited a long time to meet you,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “You look even more beautiful than your pictures.”

My pulse thundered in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to run. But my feet stayed rooted to the floor as Don Alessandro took another step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.