The city didn't stop for grief.
By Monday morning, the streets were alive again—horns, voices, the rhythm of a world that didn't care what had burned on the cliffs.
Isabella stood at the café counter near her office, watching the barista pour milk into her cup, the swirl of white and brown hypnotic. She hadn't slept much since that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flash of the gun, the sea swallowing the sound, Marco's face in the stormlight.
She told herself she needed normalcy. Work. Routine. Something that didn't smell like salt and blood.
"Rough weekend?" the barista asked, forcing a polite smile.
"You could say that," Isabella murmured, taking her coffee.
Outside, the morning was crisp, sunlight bouncing off glass towers. She walked the familiar route to the architecture firm—five blocks, two crosswalks, the same bakery on the corner where she used to stop with Daniel before everything went wrong. But today, something about the city felt… off. People moved like ghosts, eyes down, conversations hushed. A police siren wailed somewhere in the distance and faded into silence.
At her desk, Isabella tried to work. Blueprints and measurements blurred together, her concentration slipping every few minutes. Marco hadn't called in two days. Luca's men had gone quiet. She told herself it was better that way—that whatever he was chasing didn't belong in her world.
Until her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
"You shouldn't have been there that night."
Isabella froze. Her first thought was Marco. But it wasn't his tone. The message carried something colder.
She typed back quickly.
Isabella: Who is this?
No reply.
Then another message appeared.
Unknown Number:
"Matteo wasn't the only ghost."
Her hand went cold. She dropped the phone onto the desk and stared at it as if it might come alive.
She forced herself to breathe. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe one of Marco's enemies had found her number. But when she checked the call log—there it was. The sender's ID was hidden behind a private encryption key. Government-grade security. Not something a random stranger could do.
She reached for her phone again and typed a message to Marco:
We need to talk. Someone's been texting me about Matteo.
The message sent. But instead of the usual gray check mark, it stayed pending.
Unsent.
Disconnected.
She frowned, checked her signal. Full bars. She tried again—same result. It was as if Marco's number no longer existed.
Her pulse started to race.
Then she noticed something else. A man standing across the street, half-shielded behind a newsstand. Dark suit. Sunglasses. Watching her.
He didn't move when she met his gaze. Didn't even flinch.
Isabella rose from her chair, trying to stay calm. Maybe he was a private security officer, someone Luca sent. But her gut whispered otherwise.
She slipped out the back door and headed toward the parking lot, her heels echoing against the concrete.
The man followed.
When she reached her car, her hands shook as she fumbled for the keys. Then she saw it—something taped to her windshield. A small envelope, her name printed in perfect handwriting.
Her heart stuttered. She tore it open.
Inside was a single photo.
It was of her, standing on the cliffs two nights ago—rain pouring, gun in hand, eyes wide in terror. The shot was clear, professional. Someone had been there, watching.
On the back of the photo were five words written in Matteo's handwriting.
"He's not who you think."
She backed away from the car, her breath catching. "No," she whispered. "No, that's not possible."
But deep down, she remembered the way Marco had looked after Matteo's death—the sudden calm, the way he'd said, 'We finish what he started.'
A terrible thought took root.
What if Matteo hadn't been the one lying?
What if Marco had known the truth all along—and played both sides?
Her phone buzzed again, startling her.
Another text. This time, no hidden number. Just a name that made her blood run cold.
From: Marco
"Isabella, stay where you are. Whatever you've found—don't trust it."
Her hands trembled as she typed back:
Isabella: You told me Matteo was dead.
A pause. Then three dots appeared—typing… stopping… typing again.
Finally, the reply came:
"He was. Until last night."
She dropped the phone.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
Matteo. Alive. Again.
The world tilted, the parking lot spinning around her. Somewhere far away, a car door slammed, footsteps approached—the man from across the street.
"Ms. Moreau," he said, voice calm but commanding. "You need to come with us."
"Who are you?" she asked, backing up.
He reached into his jacket—not for a weapon, but for a badge. The insignia was sharp, foreign. Not police. Not Luca's men. Something else entirely.
"Matteo DeLuca is in federal custody," the man said. "And he asked for you by name."