Chapter 120 – Feretti's Table
Feretti's dining room was lit for a man who wanted to be seen. The long oak table glowed under a line of crystal lamps, their light refracted through cut-glass decanters filled with wine the colour of fresh blood. At the head, Feretti sat in his high-backed chair, turning a silver knife idly between his fingers.
Opposite him, a sweating courier shifted under the weight of bad news. The man's coat was still dusted with frost; he'd come straight from the mountains.
"Say it again," Feretti ordered quietly, his gaze fixed on the knife.
The courier swallowed. "The gully team is gone. The shipment—" he hesitated, then forced the words out—"burned."
Feretti's hand stilled. Slowly, he set the knife down, folding his hands like a priest before confession. "And the name?"
"They didn't leave a name, sir. But…" The courier's eyes flicked up briefly, then away. "The survivors—what few there were—spoke of a man. Tall, dark coat. Moved like—" He trailed off, unsure if the comparison would offend.
"Like he'd been here before," Feretti finished for him.
"Yes, sir."
Feretti leaned back, a smile ghosting across his mouth, though his eyes were flat and cold. "Kairo."
The name hung in the air like smoke. Around the table, his lieutenants shifted uneasily. Feretti reached for his wine, swirling it in the glass.
"I pay men to move goods," he said. "And I pay other men to stop those who interfere. It seems the latter have failed me."
One of the lieutenants cleared his throat. "We can double the bounty, send more men into the high pass—"
"No," Feretti cut in. "That's what Kairo wants. Chasing him on his ground only feeds him. He's not a man you corner. He's a man you wait for."
The courier, emboldened by the lull, said, "Sir, if I may—why wait? The longer he runs—"
"Because," Feretti said, his voice suddenly sharp enough to cut, "he's not running. Not from me. He's coming here. He always was."
A silence fell over the room. The only sound was the faint pop of the fire in the grate.
Feretti drained his glass, then set it down with deliberate care. "Clear the western wing. Triple the guards at the lower gates. And send word to the harbour—nothing leaves without my seal."
The courier bowed quickly and retreated, relief plain on his face at escaping the room alive.
When they were alone, Feretti's smile returned—wider this time, though no warmer. "You've taken something from me, Kairo," he murmured to the empty air. "So I'll take something from you. Something that burns deeper than black ash."
His gaze drifted to the far wall, where a faded photograph hung in a gilded frame. A woman's face, her eyes fierce even in stillness.
He touched the frame lightly, almost reverently. "You'll come for me," he said. "But first… you'll come for her."
Chapter 120 – The Last Sunrise
The safehouse clung to the cliffside like a secret no one wanted to speak aloud. Below, the sea was a dark sheet, broken only by the white curl of waves against the rocks. The air smelled of salt and cold stone, and for the first time in months, Kairo heard nothing behind them. No boots. No shouts. No breathing that wasn't their own.
He stood at the window, watching the sky pale. The horizon was streaked with faint gold, the promise of a sunrise that hadn't yet claimed the world. His coat hung open, shirt undone at the collar, the shadow of sleeplessness heavy under his eyes. But his gaze was alert—always searching.
Behind him, Elira shifted in the bed, the blankets tangled around her legs. "You didn't sleep," she said quietly.
"Not yet," he murmured, not turning. "Mornings like this… you can see things coming before they arrive."
She pushed herself up, hair falling loose around her face. "You mean trouble."
He gave a ghost of a smile. "That, or peace. Hard to tell the difference until it's too late."
Elira slid out of the bed, bare feet silent on the wood floor. She came to stand beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "It's over, Kairo. Feretti's men won't find us here."
He glanced at her, his eyes lingering a moment longer than they should have. "They won't find us, maybe. But they'll keep looking for me. That doesn't end."
"It does if you let it," she said, her voice low but steady. "Walk away. From all of it."
His jaw flexed. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind pressing against the glass. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small leather satchel—the one that had started all of this. He weighed it in his hand, as if measuring its worth against the years it had stolen from him.
"This… is the last piece of Feretti's empire," he said. "Bank codes. Ledgers. Names. Enough to burn his world down to the foundations."
"Then burn it," Elira said. "End him, and you end the chase."
He studied her face. No hesitation, no fear—only that fierce, unshakable steadiness he'd come to rely on. Slowly, he crossed the room to the fireplace. The satchel landed in the flames with a dull thud. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the leather curled, the pages inside catching, the ink turning to smoke.
They stood together, watching as the fire devoured the last thread tying him to Feretti.
When it was done, Kairo turned to her. "You understand what this means. We disappear. No names, no trails. No more Kairo Voletti."
"And no more Elira Dace," she said softly.
He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of the fire and the weight of his presence. "We start over."
Her lips curved, not quite a smile, but something close. "As long as we start together."
For the first time in years, he let his guard drop. His hand came up, brushing her cheek, and he kissed her—not with the desperation of fugitives, but with the quiet certainty of two people who had finally reached the end of the road and chosen the same direction.
When they parted, the sun had cleared the horizon, spilling light across the sea. The world outside the window was endless, untamed, and—for the first time—free.
Kairo took her hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's see where the road goes."
And together, they stepped out into the dawn.
— The End —