Luca didn't sleep.
He sat on the couch until the sky turned the color of a healing bruise, Glock across his lap, replaying every second of the diner conversation. At 6:03 a.m. he gave up, brewed coffee strong enough to strip paint, and opened the shop because routine was the only thing keeping the panic at bay.
The morning passed in a haze of forced smiles, small talk, the smell of old paper and new fear. At 11:27 a.m. the bell jingled and a UPS driver dropped off a small padded envelope addressed to "Luca Moretti – Personal & Confidential." No return address. Postmarked New York City.
Luca signed with a fake name out of habit, then locked the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and took the envelope upstairs.
The apartment felt smaller today. He set the package on the kitchen table like it might explode (because it very well might). Knife under the tape, careful, slow. Inside: a stack of Polaroids and a single flash drive in a black velvet pouch.
He spread the photos under the harsh overhead light.
The first one stole his breath.
Him. Twenty-six years old. Armani suit, no tie, standing on the steps of the Rossi brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. Flanked by Vittorio and Dante Valenti. He was smiling the easy, cruel smile of a man who still believed he was untouchable.
Second photo: him again, same night, lighting a cigarette for a woman whose face had been scratched out with something sharp.
Third: a close-up of his own hand holding a Beretta, suppressor attached, muzzle flash frozen mid-bloom.
There were twelve photos in total. Every single one a death sentence if the wrong person saw it.
His hands shook. Not from fear; from rage. Someone had gone into the family archives, the real ones, and pulled these out just to remind him who he used to be.
The flash drive was next. He jammed it into his laptop, password prompt flashing. He tried the old defaults he remembered from the life: Salvatore. Isabella. Alessandro1991. Nothing.
Then, on instinct, he typed the phrase he'd been trying to forget.
RememberWhenToForget
The drive unlocked.
A single folder: "For the Prodigal."
Inside: audio files, scanned documents, a video. He clicked the video first.
Vittorio Rossi filled the screen, sitting in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk Luca had once bled on. Older now, hair more salt than pepper, but the eyes were the same; black, depthless, amused.
"Ciao, Alessandro," Vittorio said in Italian, voice warm like poisoned honey. "If you are watching this, you are either very brave or very stupid. Perhaps both. You hurt me when you left. Family should not do that. But I am a forgiving man. Come home. We will drink, we talk, we put the past behind us. You have my word."
The camera zoomed in on Vittorio's smile.
"Or stay in your little bookshop and wait for the men I sent to bring you home in pieces. Your choice, nipote."
The video ended.
Luca sat very still for a long time. Then he swept everything back into the envelope, grabbed his keys, and walked out without locking the door. Some things you don't come back from.
The Seaside Motel was a 1960s relic two miles outside town, the kind of place that rented by the hour and didn't ask questions. Elena's gray Jeep was parked outside unit 12. Luca didn't knock; he kicked the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
It opened instantly. Elena stood there in jeans and a black sweater, hair still damp from a shower, gun in her hand pointed at his chest.
"Morning," she said, lowering the muzzle. "You look like hell."
He shoved the envelope against her collarbone. "Explain."
She took it, stepped aside. He entered. The room smelled like gun oil and coffee. A laptop glowed on the small table, cables running to two external drives and a satellite uplink.
Elena locked the door, chained it, then dumped the photos on the bed. She flipped through them without flinching.
"Nice suit," she said dryly. "Armani?"
"Stop." His voice cracked like a whip. "You sent these."
"No." She met his eyes. "But I know who did."
She opened her laptop, typed, and turned the screen toward him. An encrypted messaging app. One unread message from an account named Mnemosyne-0.
Package delivered. He is rattled. Proceed to phase two?
Elena's reply, timestamped an hour ago: Negative. He's coming to you.
Luca felt the floor tilt. "You're working with them."
"I'm playing them." She clicked another file. A scan of a lab report, redacted but not enough. Patient A.R. Age 5. Compound administered: MN-7 (early precursor). Result: 97% memory suppression of traumatic event.
His knees almost buckled.
"That's you," she said quietly. "They drugged you the night your father died. Vittorio needed a witness who would never talk. So he made sure you forgot you ever saw him pull the trigger."
Luca sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the photos of the man he used to be.
Elena sat beside him, not touching. "I've been inside their servers for fourteen months. The flash drive in the envelope? It's bait. They want you scared enough to run straight into their arms. I intercepted the courier, swapped the real drive for one with a tracker. They think you're still in the obedient soldier who'll come when called."
He looked at her then, really looked. "Why the hell should I believe a word out of your mouth?"
"Because I'm about to do something incredibly stupid." She pulled a small remote from her pocket and pressed a button. The laptop screen filled with live satellite footage of the motel parking lot.
A black SUV had just pulled in.
"Phase two," she said.
They were out the back window in under eight seconds.
Elena moved like someone who'd rehearsed this, backpack slung, pistol already in hand. Luca followed, landing cat-quiet on the gravel behind the motel. The fog was their only ally, thick enough to swallow sound.
"Jeep's compromised," she whispered. "My backup's two blocks north, old blue pickup."
They ran.
Not down the main road; through backyards, over fences, cutting between houses like knives. Luca's lungs burned with memory and cold air. Behind them, car doors slammed, voices in Italian, clipped and professional.
Elena led, sure-footed, never looking back. They burst out onto Maple Street, dove behind a hedge just as headlights swept past. The black SUV cruised slow, hunting.
Luca's pulse was a war drum. He tasted copper; adrenaline or memory, he couldn't tell.
Elena tugged his sleeve. "Now."
They sprinted across the street, into the alley behind the hardware store. A chain-link fence blocked the end. She was up and over before he could offer a boost; he followed, shirt ripping on the top.
Halfway down the alley she skidded to a stop, pressed him against the wall with surprising strength. A second SUV turned in from the opposite end, high beams pinning them.
"Shit," she breathed.
Luca scanned: dumpster, fire escape, second-story window cracked open. He made the decision in a heartbeat. "Up."
They climbed the fire escape like they'd practiced it. Metal groaned under their weight. At the roof, Elena slammed the access door shut behind them and shot the lock twice; loud as hell, but it bought thirty seconds.
Below, doors opened, boots on gravel.
Luca grabbed her hand. "Trust me."
He led her across the rooftops, jumping the small gaps between buildings, fog hiding the edges until the last second. They dropped into the parking lot behind the pharmacy, where a battered blue Ford pickup waited, keys already in the ignition.
Elena slid behind the wheel, Luca shotgun literally; he racked the pump-action he found under the seat.
She floored it.
Tires screamed as they shot out onto Route 1, fog parting like theater curtains. In the rearview, two sets of headlights burst from the alley in pursuit.
Elena drove like a woman possessed, hands steady at ten and two, eyes flicking between road and mirrors. "Three miles to the old logging road. We lose them there."
Luca rolled down the window, cold air blasting his face, and leaned out with the shotgun. The first SUV closed fast. He fired once; the spread took out the grill and radiator. Steam exploded; the vehicle fishtailed but kept coming.
"Stubborn bastards," he muttered.
Second vehicle tried to pass. Elena jerked the wheel, sideswiping it into the guardrail in a shower of sparks. Metal screamed. The SUV spun, blocking the road behind them.
One down.
The lead SUV rammed their tailgate. The pickup lurched; Elena swore in Italian. Luca twisted, fired again. Windshield spider-webbed; the driver swerved but stayed on them.
"Logging road!" she shouted.
She yanked the wheel hard right, tires howling as they left pavement for dirt. Branches whipped the windows. The SUV followed, gaining.
Luca reloaded, calm now, the old calm. "Get me close."
"You're insane."
"Do it."
She punched the gas. The pickup fishtailed, then surged. When the SUV pulled alongside, Luca leaned out and put two rounds through the driver's side window. The vehicle veered hard left, smashed through saplings, and rolled into the trees with a sickening crunch.
Silence, broken only by their breathing and the ticking engine.
Elena eased off the gas, hands shaking now that it was over. Blood trickled from a cut on her forehead where the mirror had shattered.
Luca stared at the wreck in the mirror, smoke curling into the fog. "You okay?"
"Been better." She wiped the blood with her sleeve. "You?"
He looked down at his hands; steady. The monster was awake and purring. "I haven't done that in eight years."
She met his eyes, something raw passing between them. "Welcome back, Alessandro."
"Don't call me that," he said automatically, but the name didn't sting as much this time.
They drove in silence for ten minutes until the road spat them out near an abandoned quarry. Elena killed the engine.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then Luca said, voice rough, "Your sister."
Elena stared out the windshield at the fog-draped pines. When she spoke, her voice was stripped of every defense.
"Her name was Caterina. Twenty-six years old. Art student in Florence. She came to New York two years ago to surprise our mother for her birthday." A bitter smile. "Wrong week. She walked in on a meeting between Vittorio and a biotech CEO. Overheard dates, dollar amounts, the phrase 'Project Mnemosyne.' Two days later she was dead. Overdose. Except Caterina never touched drugs in her life."
Luca felt something cold settle in his gut.
"They staged it perfectly," Elena continued. "Even convinced our mother it was suicide. I knew better. I started digging. Every source I turned ended up the same way. I got too close six months ago; they put a bomb under my car in Rome. I survived. Caterina didn't get that chance."
She turned to him then, eyes wet but fierce. "I don't want revenge, Luca. I want the weapon that killed my sister destroyed before it kills anyone else's. And you're the only person alive who was inside the program from the beginning. You're the key."
He looked away, jaw working. "I don't remember anything useful."
"You will," she said. "The drug isn't permanent. Stress, trauma; it cracks the walls. You just lived through both. It's starting."
He thought of the photos, the video, the chase, the blood on the windshield again, and felt the first hairline fracture in the dam he'd built inside his skull.
Elena reached into the glovebox and pulled out a burner phone. "One meeting. My contact is ex-FBI, burned by the Rossis ten years ago. He has the rest of the files; the ones even I couldn't reach. Tomorrow night, Boston. You come, you listen, you walk away if you want. No tricks."
Luca stared at the phone like it was a live grenade.
Behind them, somewhere in the fog, sirens began to wail; distant, but coming.
He took the phone.
"One meeting," he said. "After that, I decide if you live or die."
Elena's smile was small, tired, almost grateful. "Fair enough."
She started the engine.
As they pulled back onto the logging road, Luca caught their reflection in the side mirror; two fugitives in a stolen truck, covered in blood and glass, heading straight into the past.
The first crack had opened.
And something dark was already crawling out.