Elena's pov –
The next morning, I made my first move.
I hadn't touched the old channels since Sicily. Since before my mother died and my father sold my future like stock in a sinking ship.
But some connections never sever. They just wait — coiled like serpents — for the right note to strike.
I found an encrypted line in the study Luca never used. Hidden behind a decoy ledger.
I keyed the sequence in by memory.
Seven tones.
A pause.
Then static.
Then:
"Who gave you this frequency?"
"Isadora," I said. "Code Roseglass."
Silence.
Then, "Elena."
I closed my eyes. The voice was older, wearier. But still her.
Nika Volkov.
Once my mother's best friend. Now a mercenary broker for the forgotten children of the Bratva.
"I need a meet," I said.
"Luca will kill you if he finds out."
"Maybe."
"What changed?"
I opened my eyes.
And stared at the wedding ring on my finger.
"Everything."
The meet was set for two days later, in the old catacombs beneath Santa Lucia. Nika always did like theatrics.
But getting there?
That would be the hard part.
Luca watched me differently now. Not like a wife. Not like a spy.
Like a bomb he wasn't sure he'd disarmed.
I moved quietly. Said nothing. Slept little.
But the tension curled tighter around my spine with every hour.
I had to know: was it my father who ordered the hit?
Or someone else playing us both?
I wouldn't survive not knowing.
Not again.
Flashback — Five Years Ago
My mother once told me: "Power is never given, Elena. It's taken. Piece by bloody piece."
She bled out three days later on the tile floor of our villa. Shot in the back. No warning. No mercy.
The man who pulled the trigger?
A Moretti.
He said it was a mistake.
My father said it was justice.
But I remember the look on her face.
She didn't expect it.
She expected me to stop it.
And I didn't.
Present
The day of the meet, I slipped past the perimeter during shift change. My old training kicked in. Shadow steps. Timed distractions. Ghost routes.
I wore my mother's pendant — a tiny blade tucked inside.
Luca would know I was gone before sundown.
But he wouldn't know where.
Not unless he'd bugged my blood.
The catacombs smelled like rust and salt.
Nika waited near the ossuary wall, dressed in gray, a gun at her hip, and something older than guilt in her eyes.
"You're a long way from home," she said.
"I don't have one."
She studied me. "You used to."
I didn't reply.
Just pulled the letter from my coat. The one sealed in Bratva wax.
Nika took it. Read.
Frowned.
"This is Orlov protocol. Obsolete."
"But real?"
"Yes."
"Who sent it?"
She looked up. "Someone trying to save your life."
I swallowed. "Was it my father?"
She shook her head.
"Then who?"
Nika didn't answer.
Instead, she handed me another note.
Plain paper.
Typed.
No seal.
"Do not trust Moretti blood. Even your husband's."
Beneath it:
A name.
Rafael.
I stared at it.
Then at her.
"My cousin's dead."
"Not anymore," she said.
I returned to the estate at dusk.
The guards didn't stop me.
The gate was already open.
And Luca was waiting.
He stood in the courtyard, coat off, sleeves rolled, bruises blooming down one side of his face.
"You ran," he said.
"I came back."
He nodded slowly.
Then tossed something at my feet.
The blade from my pendant.
Covered in blood.
Not mine.
Not his.
"What did you do?" I whispered.
But I already knew.
Rafael had sent the letter.
Which meant Rafael had broken the code.
Which meant Rafael was dead.
Again.
And this time, Luca had made it final.
"I didn't know," I said.
He stepped closer. "But you believed him."
"Wouldn't you, if it was someone you lost?"
"I did lose someone."
His voice cracked. Just once.
"My father."
I stepped forward, instinctively, but he held up a hand.
"I don't need your pity, Elena. I need your truth."
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time, I didn't see a killer.
I saw a boy raised in fire, trying not to burn everything he touched.
"I didn't betray you," I said.
"Then help me burn the ones who did."