The Hidden Alpha

NORA

“I don’t even understand why you’ve to leave,” Elena cries into my shoulder as we hold onto each other tightly. “You should’ve just stayed here as you did all summer long.”

I pull away from her slightly, wiping the tears from my cheeks. As much as I want to, I know that I can’t stay here for long.

“I have to go. At least for a year. And if I don’t like it—him, then I’ll come back. There’s no way I’ll stay there if I don’t have to.”

“Can’t you just stay with me?”

I open my mouth to reply to her, but Mrs Cohen is already walking toward us from the porch.

“Elena, don’t make this any harder on her, or on yourself.” She places her hand over her daughter’s shoulder before turning to me. “But we’re here for you whenever you need it, okay?”

I nod and wipe away more tears. They’re the closest thing to family I have left. It’s going to be hard to leave them after spending every waking minute with them over the summer, but that dreaded day is finally here.

“I’ll never forget how much you’ve done for me, Mrs Cohen. For taking care of me and everything else after the funeral. I don’t know what I would’ve done with you—” She cuts me off before I finish.

“Oh, don’t go there.” She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a hug. “We’ll always be here for you, and you’re welcome to come back whenever you want to, or need to. Okay?”

I don’t hesitate to hug her back tightly. I never had an extended family. Mom and Dad never talked about their parents or any other relatives. It was always just the three of us, until one stormy night, and then, now, it’s just me.

The Cohen are the closest I have ever had to family.

“Come on now. You’re going to be late for your flight.” She tells me while leaving a kiss on my head.

We head for the airport after that, and before I can even blink, I’m saying my goodbyes and heading into the airport. I’ve lived in Glenfell my entire life, and now I have to leave and live in some town with a man I’ve never even heard of until a month ago.

He wasn’t at the funeral, nor did he call or send a card, but almost a month ago, I received a letter from my father’s attorney. In the letter, it stated that I had to relocate to the care of Vincenzo Marcelli. My father’s so-called ‘old friend’.

It wasn’t like it was the first time I had heard or read his name. My father briefly mentioned his name—maybe twice—a few years ago, but I’ve heard more of the Marcelli family than the man himself.

It was always some comments like, ‘Marcelli would take care of it,’ or ‘Marcelli knows better.’ Back then, I wasn’t really sure who my father was referring to.

The letter didn’t give me a choice. My father made it clear that I had to, at least until it was ’safe’.

It feels like it was only yesterday that I had gotten a call that my parents were mauled by a wild animal on a hike they had taken that day. I begged for them to take me along with them as I was exhausted with studying, but they did not budge.

Almost as if they knew something would’ve happened, and they didn’t want me hurt. Just thinking about it still hurts. The fact that I wasn’t there, or even able to do something, still haunts me.

But it was a closed-casket funeral, and the police ruled it as a wild animal attack, so I didn’t even get to say a final goodbye.

The next few months were terrible, miserable and downright unbearable, but I managed to get through, for their sake. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay. I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again.

“Ms Locke?” A man with grey hair, holding an umbrella, approaches me the moment I step out of the gate.

I look at him once and nod, “Yes, that’d be me.”

“I’m Henry. Mr Marcelli has asked that I bring you home after your flight.” He reaches for my luggage.

“Oh, thank you.” I manage it out. “That’s kind of you.”

“Please.” He turns and motions for me to stay under the umbrella as it is downright pouring just outside the airport.

I follow him to a car right at the front and he opens the door for me.

“Thank you.” I repeat once more before getting inside it.

My parents were well off, a house right at the end of the block, two cars, expensive dinners every weekend, but I never had to deal with someone else opening the door for me. Or anyone carrying my stuff.

It was odd.

Henry comes to the front, in the driver’s seat and settles down before he begins driving out of the parking.

I look down at my phone and drop a quick message to Elena, ‘Just reached. I’ll call you once I’m at the house.’

And then I click it off and raise my head.

“I saw the location earlier. Isn’t it a long drive?”

“Two hours, Ms Locke.”

“You can just call me Nora. I’ll be fine with it.”

He doesn’t say much, just smiles at me from the rear-view mirror.

I don’t push for more conversation as I doubt he’ll give in. Instead, I look outside the window and just stare at the passing trees. It’s different, very different from Glenfell.

It wasn’t like I had done any research before coming here. I had searched through hundreds of sites and papers, but there was so little about the town we were heading into.

Blackcrest.

I suppose I’ll find everything that I need to know once I settle down.

Two hours later, Henry drives into a narrow road and then into a gated property before stopping by the front door. Before I can even memorise the house or the location of it, my door opens.

“We’ve arrived, Miss,” Henry says to me.

I get out of the car and start heading toward the door while Henry, behind me, picks up my luggage before walking along with me.

While he opens the front door, I look back at the gates and everything that’s surrounding the house. It’s completely isolated. I think I saw a house a mile back or something, but other than that, nothing.

It’s not what I expected. At all.

“Mr Marcelli isn’t here yet. But he’ll be by evening. Until then, I can take you to your room if you’d like.” Henry says, gesturing toward the stairs.

I do a full circle of the house with my eyes before looking at him. “There’s no one else here?”

He opens his mouth, almost stutters something, but then pauses. “No, not—Maggie will be here soon, too. Since you’re here and she’ll be the housekeeper until further notice.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be around, Ms Locke.”

“No one else?” I ask again. “I thought—Vincenzo had children.”

“Oh, you’re talking about the late Mr Marcelli,” Henry says, very slowly now, as if he’s being careful. “Vincenzo has no children. Not that I’m aware of…” he ends with a little chuckle.

Late Mr Marcelli?

As in, dead? Deceased?

“You mean… his father?”

Henry nods, “Yes. The former head of the family, Mr Dante Marcelli. Passed a long time ago.” Then he smiles. “Vincenzo is the sole head of the Marcelli family, and you’ll be well taken care of under his care, Ms Locke.”

You’re kidding me.

Which Marcelli did my father mean? The former or the latter?

Did he even know that Dante Marcelli was dead when he wrote the letter? Or did he mean his son instead?

I suppose I’ve to wait till Mr Marcelli comes and tells that himself.