The Second Gunman

The world outside the Russo estate was chaos—sirens slicing through the velvet sky, red and blue lights painting the stone walls like fresh wounds. Inside the De Luca car, silence wrapped around Elena and Sandro like a noose.

She sat rigid in the backseat, the mask still in her lap, her mind unraveling.

“The woman who died…” she began.

“Her name was Agent Chloe Vance,” Ricardo said from the passenger seat. “FBI. Embedded with one of the Russo family’s accountants.”

“And she was shot by mistake?” Elena asked.

Ricardo turned to look at her, unflinching. “She was standing next to you. Same build. Same mask color. Same entrance timing. Someone either got sloppy… or someone wanted to send a clearer message.”

“To me,” she whispered.

Sandro leaned back, jaw clenched. “You’re being hunted by someone inside the game. Not just law enforcement or press enemies.”

Elena shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. I’ve kept my story under wraps. No leaks. No names. I haven’t even published—”

“That’s exactly why it makes sense,” Sandro said, voice cool and sharp. “You’re dangerous because you haven’t spoken. Because someone doesn’t know what you know. Or what you’re planning to reveal.”

Ricardo turned back to the front. “I’ve pulled security footage from the ball. There's a second gunman on the far balcony—masked. Fired the first shot. Then vanished.”

Elena narrowed her eyes. “Russo blamed it on an outsider. A rival. But if it was one of his men, why risk drawing so much attention?”

“Because,” Sandro said, “this wasn’t about Russo. Or the girl. This was about you.”

The silence settled again—heavier now.

Elena stared out the window, the Neapolitan streets slipping by like memories. Her heart thudded under her ribs.

Then she turned.

“I want access to that footage.”

Sandro raised an eyebrow. “You’re in no position to demand.”

“I’m not your prisoner,” she said firmly. “And if I’m being hunted, I deserve to know by who.”

He studied her. Then, slowly, nodded.

The De Luca surveillance room was a sanctum of cold light and silent tension. Screens glowed in rows, each showing different parts of the Russo estate from that night.

Ricardo played the relevant clip.

The masked shooter stood at the far edge of the second balcony—cloaked in shadows. He raised the weapon, fired once… then ducked away. Clean, precise, military-like.

“Pause,” Elena said.

Ricardo froze the frame. The shooter’s profile was hazy, distorted—but something shimmered near his wrist.

A bracelet.

Not expensive. Handmade. Blue thread with tiny silver beads.

Elena’s breath hitched.

She’d seen it before.

“Can you enhance that?”

Ricardo gave her a sharp look. “You recognize it?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “A contact. In London. Used to work with me on another case. Hacker. Intel broker. Name’s Alex Virelli. But he disappeared two years ago.”

“Went dark,” Sandro said. “Why?”

“I don’t know. We lost contact. Thought he was dead.” Her voice dropped. “Or turned.”

Ricardo frowned. “If it’s him, he’s working with someone with a lot of power.”

“Or someone with a reason to want me gone,” Elena murmured.

Later that night, Elena sat in the guest room of the villa, the moonlight creeping through the lace curtains. She stared at the bracelet photo on her phone, haunted.

Was Alex trying to kill her?

Or warn her?

There was a knock on the door.

Sandro entered without waiting for a reply. He held two glasses of whiskey. No guards. No mask. Just the man beneath.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” he asked.

“Not when I’m on a hit list.”

He handed her a glass and sat down beside her.

A rare silence passed between them—gentler this time.

“I’ve lost people too,” he said quietly. “Ones I couldn’t protect.”

She turned her face to him, surprised by the crack in his armor.

“And yet you’re still standing.”

“Barely.”