The Secrets We Keep

The Secrets We Keep Sicilian Mafia Wars Book 3 Meaghan Pierce Pierced Soul Publishing Copyright © 2023 by Meaghan Pierce All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Editing by Comma Sutra Editorial Cover Design by Books and Moods Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 A Note for the Reader Also by Meaghan Pierce For my ex. Turns out listening to you drone on and on about your work in data security finally came in handy. Dear Reader, Please be aware that The Secrets We Keep contains content that may be triggering for some. For a list of content warnings, please see the next page. The Secrets We Keep contains the following content: descriptions of child death Chapter One The wind whipped her hair around her face as the ferry churned from Italy’s mainland to the island of Sicily. She tucked it behind her ears to keep it out of her eyes but stopped herself short from pulling it into a ponytail. It hid the scar carved down the side of her neck. People stared when they saw it, puckered and white. If they weren’t staring, they were asking questions. She wanted to avoid both. Being the center of anyone’s attention was something she tried to avoid. A family joined her at the railing to watch the boat cut through the sea. A little boy who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight climbed onto the bottom rung, head tilted out over the water while his father gripped the back of his shirt. He had a missing front tooth when he smiled, and instantly she thought of her nephew. Pietro was only six when he died. He’d just lost his first tooth and was teaching himself to whistle through the gap. He was convinced he could learn to whistle an entire song if he tried hard enough. Then it wasn’t his smiling face she saw. It was his lifeless one, staring at nothing out of wide eyes, mouth open in a silent scream. She squeezed her eyes shut against the image, forcing it to the recesses of her mind. Wading through her memories was like a sick game. The bad always came with the good, no matter how many times she practiced recalling only happy times, only smiling faces, only laughter. In the end, it was always overtaken by the way it had all ended. She was always left cold and alone with nothing but the horrible memories of that night. She’d never be free from them. The coast began to take shape, colorful houses backed by towering cliffs of green, and she gripped the bars of the ferry’s railing. It had been too long since she’d stepped foot on Sicilian soil. She missed it. The people, the food, the sounds, the smells. Her life just outside of Berlin had been fine—comfortable and quiet. But nothing would ever compare to home. The ferry blew the horn to announce their arrival, and the little boy next to her squealed with joy, jumping down from his perch and scurrying back inside. The boat slowed to prepare to dock, and with one last look at the shore, she descended to the lower level and climbed behind the wheel of her car. It was new, but not flashy. She needed something plain that wouldn’t draw attention, and the simple black sedan fit the bill. All she had left in the world was what she’d managed to cram into the trunk and the backseat. Before leaving Berlin, she’d sold all her furniture, given her cat to the neighbors who promised to send pictures, and packed up what was left. It wasn’t much, but she hadn’t left the island with much, either. Only the clothes on her back and a healthy dose of terror and pain. The ferry docked with a jolt, and eventually the cars in front of her pulled forward. Carefully navigating the narrow strip of land serving as Messina’s harbor, she wound her way inland, rolling the windows down to take advantage of the unusually warm temperature. The sun heated her skin when she dangled her arm out the window, and she drove on impulse toward the restaurant she remembered from her childhood. Her mother was from Messina, and her family owned two popular restaurants boasting the island’s best cannoli. When she was a girl, they’d drive up from Catania to see her grandparents, who would happily let her eat as many cannoli as she could stomach, no matter how much her mother protested. Then she’d run around with her cousins until it was dark and her mother dragged her home again. When she pulled up to the curb outside the bigger of the two restaurants, her eyes brimmed with tears at the sight of it. She only had happy memories here. It wasn’t tainted. And it looked exactly how she remembered it. Bright coral stucco with white shutters and a happy teal door. In the summer, the door would be left open for the breeze off the water, cooling the dining room and the sweltering kitchen beyond. In the winter,