The train screeched against the tracks as it slowed into Verona Centrale, and Elena Marcelli felt her chest tighten the way it always did when she crossed back into this city. The glass windows of the carriage blurred with rain, distorting the skyline she had once called home. Verona—golden by day, menacing by night. A city that never forgot sins and never forgave debts.

She hadn't set foot here in eight years. Not since her father's disgrace had forced her to flee, not since she had sworn never to breathe the same air as the people who had destroyed them. And yet here she was—summoned not by choice, but by death.

Her father's death.

Elena clutched the leather handle of her suitcase tighter. The letter she'd received still burned in her coat pocket: brief, almost cold, informing her of Massimo Marcelli's passing. Heart failure, it had claimed. But Elena knew her father too well. Massimo was a man of vices, of secrets. His heart might have been weak, yes, but his enemies were countless, and in this city, death rarely came without a hand guiding it.

She stepped off the train into the dim, rain-slicked platform. The air smelled of wet stone and tobacco smoke, the same as it had when she was a child. A chill cut through her coat as she pulled it tighter and looked around. People bustled past her, shoulders hunched, faces hidden in scarves and umbrellas, but she still felt eyes on her. Watching. Measuring.

Verona hadn't forgotten her either.

________________________________

The taxi ride from the station was worse. Every street was a ghost of memory. The café on the corner where she and her best friend Lucia had skipped school, the piazza where her father once walked proudly with her hand in his, the crumbling church where she had first learned what betrayal tasted like. Her chest ached with each turn, as though the city itself mocked her return.

When the car pulled up in front of her father's townhouse, she hesitated. The building loomed, its shutters closed tight, ivy curling like veins up the stone façade. Once, it had been a symbol of respect. Now, it looked abandoned, almost haunted.

Elena paid the driver, gripping her suitcase like a lifeline as she approached the door. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement, each step echoing too loudly in the empty street. She unlocked the door with the old brass key she had sworn she would never use again.

The air inside was stale, thick with dust and something else she couldn't place. Her father's scent still lingered faintly—cigars, old books, whiskey—but beneath it was something acrid, metallic. She shivered.

Everything was the same. And nothing was.

The furniture was still in its place, the heavy drapes drawn, the grand clock ticking in the hall. But the house felt hollow, stripped of warmth. She dragged her suitcase up the stairs, her hand trailing against the wood-paneled wall, remembering the nights her father's voice had thundered through this house, sharp with power, heavy with threats.

Now it was silent. Too silent.

________________________________

That night, she sat at her father's desk, the very desk where he had built his empire of debts and secrets. Papers were scattered across the surface, his handwriting jagged and hurried in the margins. She ran her fingers over the ink, searching for answers, but finding only fragments.

A name appeared again and again in his ledgers. A name she had hoped never to see again.

D'Angelo.

Her blood ran cold.

Of course. The D'Angelos had always been circling, waiting for Massimo Marcelli to fall. And now he had.

But why did it feel like they had helped him along the way?

________________________________

That night, Elena dreamed of shadows. Of voices whispering her name. Of footsteps chasing her down dark streets. When she woke, the rain had stopped, but the unease hadn't. Something was wrong. Her father hadn't just died. He had been silenced.

And the city knew it.

________________________________

The morning light filtered through the shutters, pale and muted, casting stripes of gold across the study. Elena hadn't meant to fall asleep at her father's desk, but exhaustion had pulled her under like a tide. Her neck ached from the awkward position, and her palms were still smudged with graphite from the ledgers she'd combed through until her vision blurred.

For a moment, she forgot where she was. The scent of the house, the shadows, the silence—it was all too surreal. Then her gaze fell on the ledger still open before her, the word D'Angelo scrawled across the margin in her father's heavy hand, and reality returned with the weight of a stone sinking in her chest.

Her father was dead. She was back in Verona. And the D'Angelos' name was stitched into both fates.

________________________________

She pushed back from the desk, rubbing at her temples. She needed answers. A lawyer would be handling her father's estate, but lawyers only revealed what they were paid to. Massimo Marcelli was too clever, too paranoid, to leave a trail visible to the vultures circling him. If there were secrets—and Elena knew there were—they'd be hidden deeper.

A sharp knock at the door startled her. Three precise raps, not tentative, not friendly.

Her pulse quickened.

Elena crossed the hall, every creak of the wooden floorboards echoing like a warning. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the brass handle. For one wild second, she imagined it was her father, cigar clamped between his teeth, ready to scold her for being afraid of shadows. But the silence on the other side was heavy, waiting.

She opened the door.

A man stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark trench coat. His hair was peppered with gray, his jaw square, his eyes sharp as glass.

"Elena Marcelli," he said, his voice deep, edged with something she couldn't place.

"Yes?"

"I'm Inspector Ricci. Verona Police." He flashed a badge so quickly she barely caught it before he slipped it back into his pocket. "May I come in?"

________________________________

She led him into the study, unease prickling the back of her neck.

"What is this about?" she asked, folding her arms.

Ricci's gaze roamed the room, taking in the dust, the ledgers, the heavy drapes. "Your father's passing."

Elena stiffened. "I was told it was heart failure."

"Officially, yes." Ricci met her eyes then, and something in his look made her skin crawl. "But unofficially? There are questions."

Her mouth went dry. "What kind of questions?"

"Your father wasn't a man who lived quietly, Miss Marcelli. He made enemies. Powerful ones. Men who wouldn't hesitate to—" Ricci paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "To see him gone."

Elena's heart thudded painfully. "You're saying he was murdered."

"I'm saying," Ricci replied evenly, "that a man like Massimo Marcelli doesn't just collapse in his study. Not without help."

Her mind spun. She thought of the D'Angelo name in the ledger, of her father's debts, his temper, his endless feuds. It made sense. Too much sense.

But why tell her? Why now?

"Why come to me with this?" she demanded.

Ricci's expression didn't change. "Because whether you like it or not, Miss Marcelli, you're part of this now. If someone wanted your father gone, they may not stop there. You should be careful."

The words lingered long after he left, echoing in the silence of the house.

Careful.

The city was already watching her. She could feel it, pressing against her skin like a storm about to break.

________________________________

Later that afternoon, she forced herself to leave the townhouse. Staying inside, alone with her father's ghost, would drive her mad. She needed to see the city, to test how much of it had changed—and how much hadn't.

The streets were slick from the night's rain, the cobblestones glistening like wet glass. Verona pulsed with life around her: vendors calling from market stalls, children darting between legs, the rich scent of espresso wafting from cafés. But beneath it all was something darker, a current she couldn't ignore. Conversations hushed as she passed. Strangers stared a second too long. Whispers followed her like shadows.

She ducked into a café she remembered from her youth, the same one where she and Lucia had once skipped classes to drink bitter coffee and dream about futures far from Verona. The bell over the door chimed softly as she entered.

The café was nearly empty, but at a corner table, a familiar figure looked up.

"Elena?"

Her breath caught.

Lucia Romano.

Her best friend. Her only friend. Or she had been, once.

Lucia's dark curls framed her face, though there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes now, signs of a life lived harder than they'd planned. She rose quickly, her chair scraping against the floor, and crossed the room.

"Elena Marcelli," she whispered, disbelief and something sharper in her tone. "You actually came back."

________________________________

The reunion was awkward, tense. They sat together, coffees steaming between them, but the warmth couldn't melt the ice that years and betrayal had built.

"I heard about your father," Lucia said finally, her gaze steady. "I'm sorry."

Elena swallowed. "You don't sound sorry."

Lucia flinched but didn't deny it. "Massimo… he wasn't a good man, Elena. You know that."

"He was my father," Elena shot back.

"And he ruined lives."

The words stung, though Elena had thought them herself countless times. She looked away, staring out at the street where the rain had started again, soft and relentless.

"You shouldn't have come back," Lucia said quietly. "This city… it remembers everything. And it doesn't forgive."

Elena turned back to her, anger sparking. "Did the D'Angelos tell you to say that?"

Lucia froze. For just a heartbeat, her eyes flickered with something—fear, guilt, Elena couldn't tell. Then she shook her head. "You don't know what you're walking into."

The bell over the door chimed again, and both women glanced up.

A man had entered, tall, dressed in a tailored black coat. His gaze swept the café until it landed on Elena. His lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper, more dangerous.

Elena's blood ran cold.

She knew that face.

Dante D'Angelo.

________________________________

The café seemed to shrink the moment Dante D'Angelo stepped inside. Conversations faltered, cups paused halfway to lips, and a silence heavier than smoke settled over the room. It wasn't just his presence—it was the weight of his name. The D'Angelos didn't need to brandish weapons; their very existence was enough to remind Verona who truly held its strings.

Elena's spine stiffened as Dante's gaze locked on hers. Cold, unyielding, and yet burning with an intensity that made her pulse quicken against her will.

"Don't look at him," Lucia hissed under her breath, her hand gripping Elena's wrist. "Don't—"

But Dante was already crossing the room, his strides unhurried, predatory. Each step echoed against the tiled floor until he stood before their table.

"Elena Marcelli." His voice was smooth, low, carrying the faintest trace of amusement—as if her return was a secret joke only he understood. "I wondered how long it would take you to crawl back."

Elena forced herself to meet his eyes, though every instinct screamed at her to look away. "Crawl? Hardly. I came back to bury my father, not to trade words with vultures."

Lucia sucked in a sharp breath. "Elena—"

Dante's lips curved into something that might have been a smile if not for the cruelty laced through it. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, uninvited. The move was so deliberate, so commanding, that it felt less like joining and more like staking a claim.

The café owner hovered near the counter, clearly torn between shooing him away and bowing in deference. In the end, he did nothing—no one defied a D'Angelo.

"You speak boldly," Dante said, his eyes never leaving hers. "I wonder if you've forgotten how dangerous boldness can be in this city."

Elena leaned forward, ignoring the tremor that wanted to betray her. "Or perhaps I've remembered. Maybe that's why I'm not afraid of you."

For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled. Dante studied her as though peeling back layers she hadn't meant to reveal. Then, softly, he laughed. A dark, dangerous sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

"Your father said the same thing once," he murmured. "Do you know what happened to him after?"

Her nails dug into the wooden table, but she refused to flinch. "You tell me."

Dante tilted his head, eyes narrowing as though savoring her defiance. "I don't need to tell you anything. The truth has a way of revealing itself… painfully." He rose then, his chair scraping the floor. "But I will say this—Verona has a long memory. And so do I."

He placed a gloved hand flat against the table, leaning just close enough for her to catch the faint scent of leather and cologne. "Stay out of places you don't belong, Elena. Or you'll find your father's death was merciful compared to what awaits you."

With that, he straightened and walked out, the door's bell chiming softly as the café exhaled a collective breath it hadn't realized it was holding.

________________________________

Elena sat frozen, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Lucia grabbed her hand. "Do you see now? Do you understand what you've walked into? You shouldn't have come back—"

"I didn't come back for him," Elena snapped, though her voice trembled. "I came back for the truth. And if Dante D'Angelo thinks he can scare me into leaving, he's wrong."

Lucia shook her head, eyes filled with something between pity and fear. "He doesn't scare you, Elena. He ruins you. Slowly. Softly. Until you don't even realize you're already his."

The words struck Elena harder than she wanted to admit. She tore her gaze away from the door where Dante had vanished into the rain.

Her father's death was no longer just a mystery. It was a warning.

And she had just looked the devil himself in the eye—and refused to bow.

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.

The morning air in Verona was sharp and wet, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and damp leaves. Elena wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders as she made her way to the office of Giovanni Valenti, her father's long-time lawyer. The narrow streets felt different in daylight, yet somehow heavier, weighed down by memory and unspoken danger. She walked with a measured pace, her suitcase left behind at the townhouse; today required only her presence, her eyes, and her determination.

Valenti & Partners was tucked between two taller buildings, the façade of polished stone and dark wood giving little hint of the secrets it contained. She hesitated for a moment at the door, recalling the countless afternoons when her father had spoken of Valenti with begrudging respect. He had trusted this man implicitly, relied on him for matters no one else could navigate. And now, Elena would have to trust him too—or at least, she hoped.

The receptionist greeted her with a polite smile. "Signorina Marcelli, Mr. Valenti is expecting you. Please follow me."

Elena nodded and followed down a corridor lined with leather-bound volumes and framed certificates. The air was a mixture of polished wood, old paper, and something faintly medicinal, like antiseptic—but cleaner, more sterile than the lingering smoke of her father's townhouse.

The office door opened, revealing Giovanni Valenti, a man in his late fifties with silver-streaked hair, eyes dark and wary. His posture was stiff, his fingers drumming against the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Elena," he said, voice measured but with a hint of unease. "It's… been some time."

"Yes," she replied, stepping fully inside. "I'm here regarding my father's estate."

Valenti motioned to a chair across from him. Elena sat, keeping her bag close. The room smelled of leather, ink, and something metallic, faintly reminiscent of the coins her father had always counted obsessively. The lawyer cleared his throat, hesitating as though measuring every word before releasing it into the air.

"Your father… he had many responsibilities. Some… dangerous," he began. "I assume you are aware of his dealings with certain… influential families?"

Elena stiffened but said nothing. She had read enough of the ledgers to know exactly what he meant.

Valenti adjusted his glasses, avoiding her gaze. "The Marcelli estate… it is not in the state you might hope for. Debts… significant debts. And some of them are not simply monetary. Your father was… pressured, coerced into arrangements that could have cost him more than just money."

"What kind of arrangements?" Elena pressed, leaning forward.

Valenti's hands folded tightly together. "Blackmail, threats… promises that he could not keep. Some of the people he owed—well, they do not forgive easily. Your father… he tried to navigate them, but in the end, he was trapped."

Elena's fingers dug into her coat. "And now? Who are these people?"

Valenti's eyes darted toward the window, then back. "I cannot give you names. Not yet. It is… not safe. Some of them would act swiftly if they knew I had spoken."

"Then what do you expect me to do?" she asked, trying to control the edge of frustration creeping into her voice. "Ignore it? Pretend I'm safe?"

"No," Valenti said quietly, leaning back. "I am warning you. Your father did what he could to protect you, but…" His voice trailed, uncertain. "Now, that burden is yours, Miss Marcelli."

Elena let out a slow breath, absorbing the weight of his words. Her mind flashed to the ledger she had found, the letters in her father's handwriting warning that they'll come for it. She had already felt the shadows of those warnings closing in. Now she knew the ledger's warnings were real.

Valenti handed her a folder, the edges slightly worn. "Here is what is documented. These are your father's accounts, the debts officially recognized. Some are straightforward, loans and investments. Others… are far murkier, outside the legal frameworks. Promises made under pressure. Obligations that could not be denied."

Elena opened the folder, scanning through the lists of names, numbers, and dates. Her stomach turned with recognition of some names, fear of others. The D'Angelo name appeared repeatedly, scrawled with a kind of urgency that matched what she had already seen in the ledger at home.

"Were these payments recent?" she asked, pointing to a cluster of entries in red ink.

"Mostly," Valenti replied. "Your father tried to settle them. Some were paid, others… impossible to meet. He was under immense pressure, and he tried to negotiate, but the threats… they never ceased."

Elena's pulse quickened. "Threats? To him? Or to me?"

The lawyer hesitated. "Both, potentially. The more he owed, the greater the leverage. Those who seek repayment—or revenge—do not discriminate. You must understand that the estate… the ledger… your very presence could be seen as a bargaining tool."

A chill ran down Elena's spine. Every step she had taken to return home, every memory of Verona's streets, suddenly felt like a trap laid by invisible hands. She gritted her teeth. I will not be afraid. I will not be manipulated.

Valenti leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Miss Marcelli, if you pursue this—if you attempt to untangle your father's affairs—you must do so carefully. These people… they are not idle. They watch. They wait. And sometimes, they strike without warning."

She nodded, feeling the weight settle heavily on her shoulders. She had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud, with the authority of her father's own lawyer, made the danger tangible.

The meeting drew to a close, and Elena left the office with the folder clutched tightly to her chest. She stepped into the sunlight, trying to shake off the oppressive dread that had settled around her. As she walked down the street, her mind replayed Valenti's words, parsing every warning, every hint.

Then she noticed it—a black car parked a short distance away, engine idling silently. At first, she thought it was coincidence. But as she turned a corner, the car moved, keeping pace.

Her pulse quickened. She quickened her pace, weaving through the narrow streets, but the car followed, its presence deliberate, patient, inescapable.

Elena ducked into an alleyway, pressed against the cold stone wall, and peered through the shadows. The car stopped at the entrance, its tinted windows concealing any face within.

Her hands tightened around the folder, knuckles white. Whoever was inside was watching her—tracking her movements. And she realized, with a sinking certainty, that the danger her father had faced was not confined to the past.

It was now.

And she was the next target.

_____________________________

Elena's heart pounded in her chest, each beat a warning drum echoing in her ears. The black car waited silently, engine purring like a predator. Her fingers clenched the folder tighter; it contained everything her father had left behind, everything that could explain the web of debts, blackmail, and danger surrounding the Marcelli estate.

She forced herself to move calmly, though each step felt like a risk. She turned a corner sharply, hoping to lose the car in the winding alleys of Verona's old quarter. The cobblestones slick with rain reflected the gray sky, creating distorted, ghostly reflections of the city around her.

But the car followed.

Elena's mind raced. Who is in that car? How much do they know? How long have they been watching me? Her pulse surged with the realization that her father's enemies had not only survived his death—they were active, patient, and now focused on her.

She ducked into a small side street, leaning against the wall, her back pressed to the cold stone. She needed a plan—she couldn't outrun a car on foot, not in these narrow streets, not with the element of surprise against her.

As she crouched in the shadows, she recalled her father's warnings, the way he had always moved carefully, never trusting anyone fully. Massimo had lived in fear, and now she was beginning to understand why. Every whisper, every ledger entry, every scrawled note in the hidden compartment pointed to the same truth: someone powerful wanted control over the Marcelli legacy, and they would not hesitate to remove obstacles.

The car moved again, slowing as it approached the alley entrance. Elena's breath caught. She had only a few seconds to make a decision. The alley had two exits: forward, which led to a busier street, or back, where a staircase climbed to a higher terrace. Forward would put her in plain sight; back offered cover but no guarantee of escape.

Instinct won. She darted toward the terrace staircase, clutching the folder to her chest. The car hesitated for a moment, then continued slowly, as if measuring the risk. Elena climbed the steps two at a time, each step slick with moisture.

The terrace opened onto a narrow bridge connecting two buildings. She crouched low, peering over the edge. The street below was empty. The black car had disappeared from her sight—but she knew better. It was waiting. Watching. Calculating.

A gust of wind whipped her coat around her legs. She pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving. Her mind churned with possibilities. She couldn't return to the townhouse—not yet. Someone had been inside; they knew she had the ledger. She needed to regroup, plan her next move.

Her eyes caught movement across the bridge. A figure stepped from the shadows of a doorway, tall, broad-shouldered, face hidden beneath a hood. Elena froze. Every instinct screamed danger. The figure paused, then slowly raised a hand, pointing toward her.

Panic surged. Elena spun, heading back down the terrace steps, clutching the folder like a lifeline. She didn't know if the figure below had seen her, or if it was some trap. But she couldn't stop; she couldn't afford hesitation.

By the time she reached a quieter street, the figure was gone, swallowed by Verona's narrow alleys. Her legs shook, and she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.

They are everywhere, she thought. Even in the light of day, I am not safe.

Elena realized she needed allies—but who could she trust? Her father's lawyer, Valenti, seemed cautious, fearful even, but perhaps he was all she had for now. Yet even he had warned that revealing names could bring danger. She had to rely on herself first.

She slowed her pace, blending with the crowd. Market vendors shouted, children ran between legs, and the scent of fresh bread and espresso filled the air. Yet beneath the bustling normalcy, Elena felt the invisible weight of eyes watching, shadows lurking just beyond her vision. The city had changed, or perhaps she had changed—aware now of every whisper, every glance, every footstep.

Her thoughts returned to the ledger. Her father had left her clues, warnings, and fragments of truth. Whoever had followed her, whoever had broken into the townhouse, clearly wanted it. And if they could not have it… would they take her instead?

She ducked into a narrow café, one far less conspicuous than the one she had visited the day before. Sitting in the farthest corner, she spread the folder open on the table, scanning the pages once more. Debts, threats, coded notes. The D'Angelo name was prominent, as was another name she didn't recognize, written in hurried, sharp script: Rossi.

Elena's fingers traced the letters. Each name was a potential enemy, each debt a potential threat. She had walked straight into a world of power struggles and vengeance, a world her father had tried—and failed—to control.

Hours passed as she studied the accounts. The café emptied, the evening shadows creeping across the floor. She realized she had learned enough for now. Acting recklessly could get her killed. She had to wait, observe, and plan carefully.

Finally, she left the café, moving through the streets with calculated caution. The black car did not reappear, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the danger was only delayed. Whoever had been following her would return. And next time, they might not simply watch—they might act.

Elena arrived at the townhouse as darkness fell. She climbed the stairs slowly, the folder still clutched in her hands. Inside, the house seemed to sigh under the weight of the night. She locked the door behind her, checking the windows. The city outside was quiet, almost serene—but she knew better.

Sitting at her father's desk once more, she opened the ledger, reading through the names, dates, and notes again. Each page was a thread leading into a web of danger, power, and betrayal. She realized then that her life had irrevocably changed. She was no longer just the daughter of Massimo Marcelli. She was now part of the game her father had tried to survive.

The first shadow had found her.

And this was only the beginning.