Chapter 1 - The Song That Shouldn't Exist
“Get your filthy hands off that piano!”
The slap echoed across the grand ballroom.
Seven-year-old Lily Parker stumbled backward, one small hand flying to her burning cheek.
The music stopped.
Conversations died.
Nearly eighty guests turned toward the magnificent white grand piano standing beneath a crystal chandelier.
Vanessa Hart stood over the little girl, her diamond bracelet trembling with anger.
At thirty-two, Vanessa was beautiful, wealthy, and engaged to one of New York's most feared mafia bosses.
And she had just slapped a child in front of his entire family.
“Do you have any idea how much that piano costs?” Vanessa demanded.
Lily shook her head.
Her faded blue dress was too large for her thin shoulders. Her worn shoes looked painfully out of place against the polished marble floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Vanessa stepped closer.
“That piano is worth more than your entire miserable life.”
Lily's eyes filled with tears.
“I wasn't trying to hurt it.”
“Then why were you touching it?”
“I just wanted to play—”
“You don't belong here!”
Vanessa grabbed the girl's wrist.
Lily cried out.
And from the opposite end of the ballroom, a man's voice cut through the silence.
“Take your hand off her.”
Vanessa froze.
Luca Ferrante stood beside the entrance.
Thirty-six years old.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark wavy hair, sharp features, and cold gray eyes that had made hardened criminals forget how to speak.
He controlled one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast.
Men twice his age lowered their voices when he entered a room.
But tonight, he wasn't looking at his enemies.
He was looking at his fiancée.
And the little girl trembling beneath her hand.
“Luca,” Vanessa said quickly, forcing a smile. “Darling, it's not what it looks like.”
He approached without answering.
His gaze moved to Lily's reddened cheek.
Then to Vanessa's fingers wrapped around the child's wrist.
“I said,” he repeated quietly, “let her go.”
Vanessa immediately released her.
“She was touching Isabella's piano.”
The name struck Luca like a physical blow.
Isabella.
His wife.
The woman he had buried seven years ago.
The woman whose death had turned him into the cold, ruthless man everyone feared.
Luca looked toward the white grand piano.
It had stood untouched for seven years.
Not because it was expensive.
But because Isabella had loved it.
She used to sit there every evening, her dark hair falling over her shoulders as she composed melodies that filled the mansion with warmth.
After her death, Luca had forbidden anyone from playing it.
Not even the professional musicians hired for his family's extravagant celebrations.
Vanessa knew that.
Everyone knew that.
But something about the frightened child made him forget the rule entirely.
He knelt in front of Lily.
“What's your name?”
The girl hesitated.
“Lily.”
“Lily what?”
“Lily Parker, sir.”
Her voice was so small he almost didn't hear it.
Luca studied her face.
She had long chestnut-brown hair, pale skin, and unusually bright green eyes.
Something about those eyes unsettled him.
But he couldn't explain why.
“Are you hurt?”
Lily shook her head.
Then nodded.
“My cheek stings.”
Luca's jaw tightened.
He looked toward his security chief.
“Marco. Get some ice. And find out who brought this child here.”
“Yes, boss.”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“Luca, you're embarrassing me.”
He slowly turned toward her.
“You slapped a seven-year-old girl.”
“She was disobeying the rules.”
“She's a child.”
“She could have damaged a priceless instrument!”
Luca rose to his full height.
“Then you should have asked her to stop.”
Vanessa opened her mouth.
He cut her off.
“Never touch her again.”
The warning was soft.
But every man in the ballroom understood it.
Vanessa's face flushed crimson.
She stepped backward.
Luca turned toward Lily again.
“Where's your mother?”
The little girl's expression changed.
“She told me to wait.”
“Here?”
Lily nodded.
“Near the piano.”
Luca frowned.
“Why?”
“Because she said if I ever got lost at a big party, I should find the music.”
A strange heaviness settled in his chest.
“Your mother told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Is she here tonight?”
Lily shook her head.
“No. I came with Mrs. Collins. She works in the kitchen.”
Luca glanced toward Marco, who had returned with a small towel wrapped around ice.
“Find Mrs. Collins.”
Marco nodded and walked away.
Luca gently offered Lily the ice.
“Hold this against your cheek.”
She obeyed.
“Thank you, sir.”
He gave her a faint smile.
“You don't have to call me sir.”
“Okay.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Are you the man who owns the piano?”
Luca's expression softened.
“I suppose I am.”
“It's really pretty.”
He glanced at the instrument.
“Yes.”
“My mommy has a picture of one just like it.”
Luca went still.
“A picture?”
Lily nodded.
“She says it's the most beautiful piano in the world.”
Vanessa gave an impatient sigh.
“Luca, surely we're not going to spend the entire evening listening to some random child's stories.”
He didn't look at her.
“Go enjoy the party, Vanessa.”
“But—”
“Now.”
She stared at him.
Then turned and walked away, her heels striking sharply against the marble.
Luca waited until she disappeared into the crowd.
Then he looked back at Lily.
“Do you play piano?”
Her face brightened.
“A little.”
“Who taught you?”
“My mommy.”
“Is she a music teacher?”
Lily thought for a moment.
“She says she used to write songs.”
Luca felt a familiar ache in his chest.
Isabella had said the same thing.
She never called herself a composer.
She always said she was simply a woman who liked writing songs.
He pushed the memory away.
“What were you trying to play?”
Lily glanced nervously toward the piano.
“A song Mommy taught me.”
“What's it called?”
The girl smiled.
“She calls it 'The Little Star.'”
Luca stopped breathing.
For one terrible second, the entire ballroom seemed to tilt beneath his feet.
The Little Star.
That was what Isabella had called her final composition.
A melody she had written shortly before her death.
A melody she had never recorded.
Never published.
Never performed in public.
Luca had heard it only a handful of times, sitting beside her in their private music room.
He remembered one evening in particular.
Isabella had been wearing a pale blue silk dress.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
She had played the melody, then turned toward him with a shy smile.
“One day,” she had whispered, “I'm going to teach this song to our little girl.”
Luca had laughed.
“We don't have a little girl.”
“Not yet.”
Three weeks later, Isabella was dead.
Luca swallowed.
“Lily.”
“Yes?”
“Can you play that song for me?”
She looked frightened.
“But the pretty lady said I wasn't allowed.”
Luca glanced toward the piano.
Then back at her.
“I'm telling you it's okay.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He offered his hand.
Lily placed her small fingers in his.
Together, they walked toward the white grand piano.
The remaining guests watched in confusion.
Luca Ferrante hadn't allowed anyone near that instrument in seven years.
Now he was helping a little girl climb onto its velvet bench.
He adjusted the seat.
“Are you comfortable?”
Lily nodded.
She placed her hands on the keys.
For a moment, she simply stared at them.
Then she began to play.
The first three notes were soft.
Delicate.
Almost hesitant.
Luca's blood turned cold.
He knew those notes.
He had heard them in his dreams for seven years.
Lily continued.
A gentle ascending melody filled the ballroom.
Then came the distinctive pause before the fourth phrase.
Exactly the way Isabella had written it.
Luca gripped the edge of the piano.
No.
It couldn't be.
He remembered every note.
Every hesitation.
Every tiny change Isabella had made while composing it.
The girl played the second passage.
And Luca felt something inside him break.
Because she wasn't simply playing a similar melody.
She was playing Isabella's song.
Perfectly.
Including the unfinished ending that Isabella had never written down.
Luca had never told anyone about that ending.
No recording existed.
The original handwritten sheet music had disappeared after her funeral.
Yet this little girl knew it.
When Lily reached the final phrase, she paused.
Then she played four soft notes.
A quiet, descending sequence.
Luca's eyes widened.
Isabella had added those four notes the night before the accident.
He remembered sitting beside her.
He remembered kissing her forehead.
And he remembered her whispering:
“Now it's finished.”
The last note faded.
Silence filled the ballroom.
Lily turned toward him.
“Did I do it right?”
Luca couldn't answer.
His throat had tightened so badly that speaking felt impossible.
He stared at her small hands.
Then at her face.
Those green eyes.
That familiar tilt of her head.
The little dimple that appeared when she smiled.
He had seen those things before.
On Isabella.
“Mr. Luca?”
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“Are you sad?”
He forced himself to breathe.
“No, sweetheart.”
But his voice betrayed him.
“It's just… that song is very special to me.”
Lily smiled.
“It's special to Mommy too.”
Luca crouched beside the bench.
“Lily, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Where did your mother learn that song?”
The girl looked confused.
“She didn't learn it.”
“What do you mean?”
“She made it.”
Luca's heart slammed against his ribs.
“She made it?”
Lily nodded proudly.
“She says she wrote it a long time ago, before I was born.”
The room seemed to disappear.
Luca stared at her.
“What's your mother's name?”
“Mommy.”
He almost laughed.
Almost.
“Does she have another name?”
Lily nodded.
“Anna.”
Luca's hope faltered.
Anna.
Not Isabella.
He forced himself to remain calm.
“Anna what?”
Lily shrugged.
“Just Anna. Sometimes people call her Miss Anna.”
Luca studied her.
“Does your mother have dark hair?”
“Yes.”
“Green eyes?”
Lily smiled.
“Like mine!”
His hands began to tremble.
He quickly folded them together.
“Lily, how old are you?”
“Seven.”
“When did you turn seven?”
“Last month.”
Luca felt the floor shift beneath him.
Isabella had died seven years and eight months earlier.
If Lily had just turned seven, she would have been born approximately eight months after Isabella's supposed death.
The dates were close enough to make his chest tighten.
But that was impossible.
He had attended Isabella's funeral.
He had watched the coffin lowered into the ground.
He had stood in the rain for nearly three hours after everyone else left.
And he had spent seven years believing the woman he loved was gone forever.
“Mr. Luca?”
Lily tugged gently at his sleeve.
He looked at her.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
His pulse quickened.
“Of course.”
She leaned closer.
“Mommy says I shouldn't tell strangers too much about us.”
Luca nodded slowly.
“That's good advice.”
“But I don't think you're a stranger.”
“Why not?”
Lily studied his face.
“Because you look like someone in Mommy's picture box.”
Luca stopped moving.
“What picture box?”
“The one she keeps under her bed.”
He felt a cold sensation travel down his spine.
“What kind of pictures?”
“Old ones.”
Lily tilted her head.
“Sometimes she looks at them and cries.”
Luca's voice dropped to a whisper.
“Does she ever tell you why?”
Lily shook her head.
“She just says she misses someone.”
Across the ballroom, Vanessa stood beside a marble column, watching them.
Her expression had changed.
She was no longer angry.
She looked frightened.
Luca barely noticed.
“Lily,” he said carefully, “when did you last see your mother?”
“This morning.”
He stared at her.
“This morning?”
“Yes. Before Mrs. Collins picked me up.”
“Where is she now?”
“At home.”
“Is she sick?”
Lily hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
Luca frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She gets headaches. And sometimes she forgets things.”
His stomach tightened.
“Forget what?”
“Places. People. Stuff from before I was born.”
Lily lowered her voice.
“She says there are parts of her life she can't remember.”
Luca felt the blood drain from his face.
Isabella had supposedly died in a violent car accident.
The same accident that had left her vehicle almost completely destroyed.
The doctors had told him there was no chance of survival.
But what if—
He stopped himself.
No.
He couldn't allow himself to believe something so impossible.
Not without proof.
“Lily, does your mother know you're here?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know whose house this is?”
The girl shrugged.
“She said Mrs. Collins was bringing me to a fancy party.”
Luca nodded.
“Does your mother have a phone?”
“Yes.”
“Could you call her?”
Lily shook her head.
“Mrs. Collins has her number.”
At that moment, Marco returned.
Beside him walked a nervous woman in her late fifties wearing a black catering uniform.
“Boss,” Marco said. “This is Margaret Collins. She's part of tonight's temporary kitchen staff.”
Margaret's face went pale when she saw Lily sitting at Isabella's piano.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “What happened to your cheek?”
Lily touched the red mark.
“The pretty lady got mad.”
Margaret looked horrified.
Luca stood.
“Mrs. Collins.”
“Yes, Mr. Ferrante?”
“Who is this child's mother?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Her mother?”
“Yes.”
“Her name is Anna Parker.”
“Where does she live?”
Margaret glanced at Lily.
“Sir, I don't think I should give out her address without permission.”
Luca took a slow breath.
He could have ordered Marco to investigate.
He could have demanded every detail.
But the frightened little girl beside him deserved better than that.
“Then call her,” he said. “Tell her Lily is safe, but I'd like to speak with her.”
Margaret reached into her pocket.
Then stopped.
“Sir… Anna doesn't answer calls from unfamiliar numbers.”
“Then use yours.”
Margaret looked deeply uncomfortable.
“She's been having a difficult time lately. I promised I wouldn't let anyone upset her.”
Luca's expression hardened.
“Why would speaking to me upset her?”
Margaret said nothing.
And that silence told him more than any answer could have.
Before he could question her again, Lily suddenly brightened.
“Oh! I have something!”
She slid off the piano bench.
Then reached into the small pocket sewn into the side of her dress.
“Mommy gave me this.”
Luca watched as she pulled out a folded photograph.
“She said if I ever got lost, I could show someone this picture so they'd know who my mommy is.”
The photograph was slightly bent at the corners.
Lily carefully unfolded it.
“See? That's me.”
She pointed to a smiling little girl standing in front of a small white house.
Beside her stood a woman with long dark-brown hair.
Luca looked down.
And the world stopped.
The woman's face was unmistakable.
Those emerald-green eyes.
The delicate nose.
The soft smile.
The tiny beauty mark near her left eyebrow.
He knew every detail.
He had kissed that face a thousand times.
He had memorized it during the happiest years of his life.
And he had spent seven years trying to forget the sight of it lying motionless in a hospital bed.
“Isabella…”
The name escaped his lips.
Lily looked up.
“No. That's my mommy, Anna.”
Luca couldn't move.
His hands trembled as he took the photograph.
He turned it over.
A date had been printed along the bottom edge.
October 14, 2026.
Three weeks ago.
The photograph had been taken three weeks ago.
Luca stared at the date.
Then at the woman's face.
Then back at the date.
Seven years.
Seven years of grief.
Seven years of guilt.
Seven years of visiting a grave every Sunday.
And now—
A photograph.
Taken three weeks earlier.
Of the woman he had buried.
Behind him, Margaret Collins whispered:
“Oh, no.”
Luca slowly lifted his eyes.
The older woman was trembling.
And across the ballroom, Vanessa had gone completely white.
Luca looked down at Lily.
“Sweetheart…”
His voice broke.
“Are you absolutely sure this is your mother?”
Lily nodded.
“Of course.”
She smiled innocently.
“That's Mommy. We took it on her birthday.”
Luca looked at the photograph one final time.
May you like
Then he whispered the words that made Margaret cover her mouth in horror.
“That's my wife.”
