The townhouse was far too quiet.
All day, Elena had tried to busy herself—sorting through drawers, dusting shelves, opening windows to chase away the stale scent of whiskey and cigar smoke that clung to the walls. But no matter how many curtains she pulled back, the house refused to breathe. It felt heavy, oppressive, as though the air itself resented her presence.
She paused at the top of the staircase, her hand resting against the carved banister. Below her, the shadows of the entrance hall stretched long and thin across the marble floor. She could almost imagine them moving, slithering toward her.
With a sharp breath, she turned away and forced herself into her father's study.
The study had always been forbidden to her as a child. Massimo had ruled it like a king in his throne room, surrounded by the trophies of his dominion—leather-bound books, expensive cigars, the glint of polished wood. Elena remembered standing at the door once, no more than ten years old, clutching a drawing she had made for him. He had barely looked up from his ledgers before telling her to leave.
Now, she crossed the threshold as if daring the ghost of him to stop her.
The desk was the same monstrous oak structure she remembered, its surface crowded with papers, envelopes, and half-empty glasses of amber liquid. Dust coated everything, yet there was a subtle disorder—papers shifted, drawers left slightly ajar. Someone had been here. Recently.
Elena sank into the chair, the leather groaning under her weight. She reached for the nearest stack of papers and began leafing through them. Bills, receipts, names scribbled in her father's jagged handwriting. The more she read, the colder she felt.
Debts.
Everywhere she looked, her father owed something—to men she recognized and many she didn't. Some of the names were crossed out, marked with a red X. Settled debts, perhaps. Others had a single word scrawled beside them: pending.
But one name appeared again and again, written in larger, darker strokes than the rest.
D'Angelo.
Her stomach twisted.
Of course.
She shoved the papers aside, frustration prickling at her skin. She had come here searching for closure, maybe even some scrap of proof that her father's death was more than the "natural causes" the city whispered about. Instead, she had found confirmation of what she already suspected: Massimo Marcelli had been neck-deep in the D'Angelos' pocket. And now she was left to untangle the mess.
Elena opened the drawers one by one. More receipts, a few letters sealed in envelopes, and an old revolver wrapped in a cloth. She stared at the weapon, her fingers brushing the cold metal before she slammed the drawer shut.
Her father had lived in shadows, surrounded by enemies. No wonder he hadn't died peacefully.
___________________________________
Hours passed in silence as she sifted through the chaos. Somewhere in the back of the desk, tucked behind ledgers, she found letters written in her father's hand. They weren't addressed, nor were they signed. But the words made her throat tighten.
They'll come for it.
If I don't act soon, everything will be lost.
Elena must never know.
Her name leapt from the page like a blade.
Her hands trembled as she set the letter down. What had he meant? What was "it"?
She searched desperately for more, flipping through every drawer, every folder. But the letters ended there—half-finished thoughts, cryptic warnings. No explanation.
By the time night fell, the study was a storm of papers and dust around her. The house seemed even darker now, the hallways swallowing what little light the lamps cast. She made herself tea in the kitchen, the small sound of the kettle whistling almost deafening in the stillness.
Carrying the cup upstairs, she paused halfway when a floorboard groaned in the distance.
Elena froze.
The sound had come from below.
Her pulse hammered as she strained to listen. Another creak. Slow. Measured. Like footsteps.
She set her cup down on the railing, her hands shaking so hard hot liquid sloshed over the rim.
"Hello?" she called, her voice breaking against the silence.
No answer.
She grabbed the nearest object she could find—a brass candlestick from the hall table—and crept down the stairs. Each step seemed to echo louder than the last. The house, which had always felt cold, now felt alive, its walls whispering with every groan and sigh of old wood.
She reached the bottom, her breath shallow.
The study door was ajar.
She distinctly remembered closing it.
Her grip on the candlestick tightened as she nudged the door open. The air inside was cooler than before, the curtains swaying gently as though disturbed. Papers littered the floor, scattered in disarray.
Someone had been here.
And they had searched more thoroughly than she ever could.
Her gaze darted across the room, but no one remained. Whoever it was, they had slipped away into the night.
Still, her skin prickled with the certainty that they weren't far.
Elena knelt, gathering the fallen pages with trembling hands. Her father's words swam before her eyes: They'll come for it.
"They already have," she whispered, the candlestick clattering to the floor.
___________________________________
The wind outside howled against the shutters, but Elena knew what she had heard wasn't the wind.
She moved slowly through the study, each step crunching on paper. Whoever had been there had worked in haste, scattering ledgers, envelopes, and torn scraps of parchment across the floor. Yet something about the mess felt deliberate, as though it wasn't just a search but a warning.
Her fingers skimmed over the desk again, desperate, restless. This time, instead of looking through the obvious, she pressed against the edges, tapping wood for hollowness.
Her father's paranoia had been infamous—every lock double-checked, every conversation guarded. He wouldn't have left his secrets out in the open.
"Where would you hide it, Massimo?" she whispered.
The drawer handles were ornate, curling into bronze spirals. She pulled one open fully, then pushed it closed. On the third attempt, she felt resistance at the back, as though the drawer caught against something. Her breath caught. She slid it out carefully, then ran her hand along the inside frame of the desk.
There—an indentation, no larger than her thumb.
Her pulse raced as she pressed it. A faint click.
Part of the desktop shifted.
Elena's heart thudded so loudly she was certain whoever lingered in the dark house could hear it. She pushed harder, and a hidden compartment revealed itself, a slim cavity between the inner wood panels. Inside was a leather-bound ledger, its cover blackened by age and use.
She snatched it out, her hands trembling.
The first pages looked like numbers, coded accounts. But further in, the ink turned jagged, frantic. Her father's handwriting slanted across the page like the ramblings of a man cornered.
They won't forgive me.
D'Angelo's patience is running thin.
If I don't deliver, they'll take her instead.
Elena's mouth went dry. Her.
Who?
Her?
The room spun as she tried to focus, but another sound shattered her thoughts.
A faint creak, deeper this time, from the hall beyond.
The air around her grew tight. Whoever had been here—whoever had rifled through her father's study—hadn't left.
They were still in the house.
Elena shoved the ledger beneath her coat instinctively, then backed toward the desk. The revolver. She had seen it earlier, wrapped in cloth. Her shaking hands fumbled as she retrieved it, the weight nearly too much for her wrists.
The hallway was pitch-dark when she stepped out. The lamps she had left glowing earlier had been extinguished, one by one. Only a thin thread of moonlight cut across the marble floor from the high windows.
Her throat tightened.
"Who's there?" Her voice cracked, echoing into the silence.
No answer.
Her fingers clutched the revolver harder. She moved through the hall, her heartbeat like a drum. Each creak of the floor beneath her feet felt like betrayal, announcing her position to whoever lurked beyond.
When she reached the base of the staircase, she froze.
One of the upstairs doors—her father's bedroom—was wide open. She was certain she had closed it earlier.
The air inside shifted, heavy and expectant, like lungs drawing breath.
She raised the revolver, though her hands shook so violently she could barely aim. Step by step, she approached, the silence unbearable.
Inside, the moonlight revealed the edge of the bed, the sheets still unmade from the night her father had died. For an instant, she thought she saw a shadow move against the far wall, slinking into darkness.
She nearly fired.
But when she blinked, the space was empty.
Her breath hitched. She was losing her mind. The house was playing tricks on her. Or worse—someone was toying with her, moving just out of reach, never showing their face.
Her gaze swept the room again. And then she noticed something new.
The wardrobe in the corner. Its doors hung slightly ajar.
Every instinct screamed at her not to approach. But her feet moved anyway, as though compelled.
She yanked the doors open, the revolver raised—
Nothing.
Only the faint scent of her father's cologne lingering in the coats.
Her knees weakened with relief, but it lasted only a second. For just as she lowered the gun, another sound drifted up from below.
The slow, deliberate slam of the front door closing.
Whoever had been inside had just left.
Elena stumbled to the window and peered into the street below. Cobblestones glistened with rain. A lone figure in a dark coat disappeared around the corner, vanishing into the city.
She pressed her forehead against the glass, her chest heaving.
They had been inside the entire time. Watching. Searching. Waiting.
And now they knew she had the ledger.