I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the ornate decor surrounding me. Everything about this room—the luxurious silk curtains, the grand chandelier, the vintage furniture—felt foreign.
Lying back on the bed, I tried to clear my head, but the weight of everything my mother had just told me pressed down on my chest. The family I thought I knew didn’t exist. We’re a mafia group.
“Oh, god,” I whispered to myself. “What am I going to do now?”
I couldn’t sleep so I grabbed the remote and turned on the television, hoping for a distraction.
But the screen lit up with headlines that made my stomach drop.
“BREAKING NEWS: Tracie Whitaker Confirmed as the Only Daughter of the Whitaker Family Empire.”
“Europe’s Wealthiest Family’s Hidden Heiress Revealed.”
“Tracie Whitaker’s Shocking Return Sparks Speculation About the Whitaker Legacy.”
Pictures of me flashed on the screen—walking into the police station, standing beside my mother, even old photographs from my childhood.
I sat up, my heart pounding. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.
They knew who I was now. Everyone knew.
And there was no turning back.
