POV: Emilia Conti
I didn't ask to sit down.
If I did, my legs might have given out.
"Where is he?" I asked instead.
Alessio watched me carefully, as if measuring whether I would break or harden. "Not here."
"Then where?"
"In a holding site," he replied. "Off the grid."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving right now."
I nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. "How long has he been there?"
"Less than twelve hours."
"And he asked for me."
"Yes."
"By name?"
Alessio hesitated.
"That hesitation," I said quietly, "means this is worse than you're letting on."
He exhaled slowly. "He didn't use your name."
My chest tightened. "Then what did he say?"
"He asked for his sister."
The word landed with weight. Not shock—something denser. Heavier. Like gravity reasserting itself after years of floating without answers.
I didn't cry.
That surprised me.
"How does he know about me?" I asked.
"He knew before we did," Alessio replied.
I swallowed. "How?"
