I didn't even realize how fast I was running until my breath came in short, sharp bursts, and my heels slapped against the cobblestones like warning bells. The streets were empty, but the shadows felt alive, moving with me, twisting in ways that made my stomach churn. I clutched the note in my coat pocket, burning against my ribs. Six simple words, but they had changed everything:
"This is not art. It's a map."
Every corner I turned, every alley I passed, felt like it might be the one where someone would step out and grab me. I hated being afraid. I hated feeling small. But I couldn't stop. Not after the painting, not after the note, and definitely not after seeing him.
He was waiting. Of course, he was waiting. Leaning against the wall like he belonged there, like the night itself was his ally. His coat was dark, perfect, and the sharp line of his jaw made my knees weak even though I tried to ignore it. The memory of him at the gallery, watching me from across the room, never blinking, burned in my mind.
"I don't mean to startle you," he said, stepping forward, his voice smooth, low, with a faint Italian accent. "I just thought we should talk."
"You were at my exhibit," I said, trying to make my voice firm even though it trembled.
"I was," he replied. His eyes, dark gray and unreadable, didn't blink. "And I'm very interested in your father's work."
My stomach twisted. "If this is about the painting"
"It is."
The alley felt suddenly smaller. My heart thudded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I wanted to run, to disappear into the night, but my legs froze. Something about him, something in the way he moved, made me stay.
"Then you can speak to my lawyer," I said, my voice shaking despite myself.
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I already did. He's not as charming."
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening on the note. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. I could smell faint cologne, expensive and sharp. He didn't look threatening yet. Not physically. But the air around him was heavy, dangerous, like stepping too close to fire.
"What do you want?" I whispered.
"The map," he said simply. No hesitation. No lies.
I blinked. My hands shook. "What map?"
He didn't answer right away. He just stared at me, really looked at me, as if trying to peel back my skin and read my thoughts. "Your father didn't just paint because he loved color," he said finally. "He painted to hide things. Bank routes. Account numbers. Names. Locations. Things men kill to protect."
"You knew him?" My voice was barely a whisper, but I felt it tremble with fear and anger.
"I knew the man who killed him," he said.
I stumbled back, almost losing my balance. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. My legs felt like they had turned to stone.
"Your father was part of something dangerous, Seraphina," he said, his voice calm but full of weight. "Something that didn't die with him. And now you're standing at the center of it."
I wanted to scream, to argue, to tell him he was wrong. My words were trapped in my throat.
"You're holding something very valuable," he continued, stepping closer, slow, careful. "And very deadly."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, trying to sound brave, but my teeth chattered anyway.
"You will," he said, and then he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the alley. Like smoke. Like he had never been there at all.
I stayed frozen for what felt like forever. My legs finally started moving, but they carried me not home, not to safety, but back to the gallery. My hands shook as I unlocked the door, and I slipped inside. The familiar smell of varnish and old wood hit me, and for a second, I almost felt safe. Almost.
I turned on a single light and moved straight to the painting. The girl in red stared back at me, silent and accusing. I ran my fingers over the edges of the canvas, over the seams, over the hidden note now resting on my desk.
"This is not art. It's a map."
The words seemed to hum, like they had a life of their own. I sat down, pressed my forehead against the cool edge of the desk, and tried to think. Where could it lead? Why now? Why had my father left this for me? And most terrifying of all, how did the man know my name?
A sound made me jump. Footsteps. Not far. Somewhere above. The gallery's security camera blinked twice, and then went black.
I froze. Every hair on my body stood on end. My hands tightened around the note. I wanted to run, to scream, to hide… but I couldn't. I didn't dare.
I pulled the note closer and read the words again. They didn't feel like words anymore. They were a warning. A challenge. A promise.
Outside, the city slept, unaware of the danger breathing in the alleys and corners. But I couldn't. Not tonight.
I clenched my fists, heart hammering, and whispered into the stillness, "Papa… what did you do?"
A faint sound echoed from the corner of the room. A chair scraping the floor. Then silence.
I stood, holding the note like a shield, and listened. Every creak, every whisper of wind, felt like a step closer.
And then, a shadow flickered across the wall, fast and deliberate, like someone had just passed behind the doorway.
I gasped, stumbled backward, and the note slipped from my hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud.
Something had just begun. And I had no idea how fast it would catch me.