Chapter 1

She ducked into the stairwell of her small flat, fingers brushing the chipped stone railing as she climbed. The building smelled of old books and sea salt. The kind of scent that lingered in Venice long after the tourists left.

Upstairs, behind a rusted door, was the life she had stitched together—quiet, fake, temporary. A name that wasn’t hers. A passport Mira had hacked into the system. A burner phone, always off unless it rang once—just once—from a number that didn’t exist.

She bolted the door, triple locked it, then sank into the chair beside the window. From here, she could see the glimmer of the Grand Canal through the cracks between buildings.

Beautiful.

Deceptive.

Just like him.

Zohaib Khan wasn’t the kind of man people ran from. Not twice.

Amber pulled out her laptop. It wasn’t connected to anything. Just a mirror—watching the watchers. She ran the loop Mira had programmed. Clean. No trace. No bugs.

Still, her fingers hovered.

He was close. She could feel it.

And worse, part of her wasn’t sure she wanted him far.

A soft knock jolted her upright.

Three knocks. Pause. One knock. Elena.

Amber opened the door a crack. The old landlady smiled, holding out a plate of fresh lemon cookies.

“You didn’t come down today,” Elena said gently. “The rain’s bad, I know. But you shouldn’t hide all day.”

Amber nodded. “Grazie.”

“You remind me of someone,” the woman added, studying her face. “Someone who left too soon.”

Amber forced a smile. “I don’t plan on staying long either.”

Elena’s smile faltered, but she said nothing more.

As soon as the door closed, Amber exhaled.

Even kindness felt dangerous now.

......................

Across the city, from the top floor of the Hotel Danieli, Zohaib Khan stood with his hands in his pockets, staring across the water.

Rayaan appeared beside him, tablet in hand.

“She changed her routine,” Rayaan said. “She’s getting smarter.”

“She’s always been smart,” Zohaib murmured. “That’s what makes her dangerous.”

He watched the fog drift over the rooftops.

“She thinks she’s safe,” he added. “Let her believe it.”

Rayaan hesitated. “And when you’re ready?”

Zohaib’s lips twitched. Not a smile. A calculation.

“When I’m ready... she’ll open the door, and I’ll already be inside.”

......................

She stood at the window long after Elena left, the lemon cookie untouched in her hand.

Somewhere below, a violin played—soft, aching notes echoing off the damp stone. The sound drifted through the alley like a memory. Venice had a way of making everything feel ghostly, like you were walking through the past wearing someone else's name.

Amber knew better than to feel safe. Safety was always the first illusion.

She powered on the second device—an old black phone, modified, encrypted. No SIM card. One signal only. If it rang once, it meant Mira had something urgent.

It didn’t ring.

But the silence was louder than any warning.

She opened her drawer and stared at the flash drive. Small. Plain. The reason everything fell apart. It had been copied—of course. She was careful. But this... this was the original.

Whatever was on it, Zohaib wanted it back.

He didn’t want police. Didn’t send threats. He didn’t try to silence her.

He just started watching. Quietly. Unshakeable.

He was the kind of man who played chess while the world panicked. And somewhere in the shadows of Venice, his next move was already in play.

Amber tucked the flash drive back under the floorboard.

Tonight, she’d sleep with one eye open again.

---

Somewhere in the heart of the city, under the pale glow of a crumbling lantern, Nico Varella leaned against a column, cigarette burning low in his hand. His eyes were on the third floor window across the canal—just briefly lit before going dark.

“She’s still up,” he said into the comm. “Alone. Quiet.”

Zohaib’s voice came through the earpiece, calm and cold. “She won’t be alone for long.”

Nico raised a brow. “So we’re done waiting?”

“Not yet,” Zohaib said. “She hasn’t broken.”

There was silence on the line. Then, “But she will.”

---

Back in her flat, Amber laid on her bed without sleeping. Her eyes traced the cracks on the ceiling.

She hated the feeling creeping into her chest—not fear.

Familiarity.

It wasn’t just that he was getting closer. It was that... she remembered what it felt like when he looked at her—not with rage, but with something worse.

Possession.

And something even worse than that.

Care.

The kind of care that felt like drowning.

And she wasn’t sure she had the strength to float this time.

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