Lucia’s hold tightens. “I know, sweet girl. I know. Sometimes life takes and takes, and the only thing left to do is keep living. Enzo would hate to see you like this—chained to grief. He’d want you to be free, to be happy again.”
My breath hitches. I try to swallow it down, but the sound escapes anyway—a raw, broken thing. The room spins. I clutch the photo so hard it bends in my palm.
“I can’t let it go,” I whisper. “I can’t move on, not when it feels wrong. Not when I don’t know.”
Lucia presses her lips to my hair. Her hands are gentle, but her words cut deep. “There’s nothing wrong with remembering. With wanting answers. You have to let yourself heal too. The world keeps moving, even when we’re left behind.”
Tears sting hot against my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away. Lucia rocks me, murmuring nonsense in Italian, the kind of lullabies she used to hum when I was small and afraid of thunderstorms. Now, the storms are all inside me.
The photo slips from my fingers, landing face down on the desk. I press my face into Lucia’s shoulder, letting the grief spill out. She stays with me, silent except for her breath and the soft click of the lamp as she turns it off.
“Come to bed, Isabella,” she says finally. “Tomorrow will look different in the daylight.”
I nod, though I don’t believe it. I let her guide me from the room. The door closes behind us, shutting the ghosts inside.
Later, alone in bed, I lie awake, tracing the memory of Enzo’s face on the inside of my eyelids. I wonder if he was afraid at the end. If he tried to call for help and nobody heard. If he trusted someone he shouldn’t have.
The answers don’t come. Only the ache. Only the quiet, suffocating dark.
Chapter Two - Emil
The stink of gasoline hangs low in the air. Sweat, metal, cheap cologne. I step through the rows of stacked crates, boots echoing against concrete, and the men part without a word. They always do.
I don’t have to look to know they’re watching. Every last one careful to avoid my eyes, as if a single wrong glance could ruin them. Maybe it could.
A van backs up to the loading bay, taillights flickering red across the wall. I signal with a flick of my fingers, and four men heave the crate inside. Black market Kalashnikovs. Enough rounds to start a war if someone was stupid enough to try. Everything in its place. Everything accounted for.
I pause beside the manifest, thumb the corner of the clipboard. The numbers are right, but I spot the nervous twitch in Kirill’s jaw. The man tries to hide it, but the sweat on his brow gives him away.
He must think I didn’t notice him skimming last week. He’s wrong.
I keep my voice low, each word clipped and final. “Open your jacket, Kirill.”
He fumbles, eyes darting between me and the open van. I don’t repeat myself. By the time he pulls the folded bills from his inner pocket, his hands are shaking.
I hold his gaze. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” I ask, calm. I don’t have to raise my voice; the men closest go still, the younger ones paling. Even the foreman straightens, spine rigid.
Kirill mumbles an apology, but it’s wasted breath. I nod to Viktor. The punishment is quick: a gloved fist, the thud of bone on bone, Kirill folded over with blood spilling from his nose.
I watch, expression unchanged. Discipline. It’s not cruelty, not anymore. It’s order.
I take the money. “Next time, I don’t use Viktor,” I say, voice even. Kirill understands. Viktor wipes his knuckles on a rag and the men keep loading. I glance over the manifest one last time, then toss the clipboard back onto the stack. Everything is routine.
By midnight the warehouse is mostly empty, the vans rumbling out one after another, red taillights vanishing into the dark.
My office sits above the loading floor, windows smeared with grime. I climb the stairs, push the door open. The walls reek of old smoke and spilled vodka. Lukyan’s left me three missed calls, but I don’t bother with the phone.
A battered bottle sits on the desk—Beluga, expensive, untouched for weeks. I stare at it, the clear liquid shining under the cheap lamp. I should drink. Most nights I would. Instead, I sit in the battered chair, elbows braced on my knees, and study the shape of my hands.
Blood stains the creases around my knuckles. It doesn’t bother me. I wipe it away with a cloth, slow, careful, as if it’s something sacred.
Violence stopped feeling like anything years ago. It’s not anger, not even satisfaction. Just a task, like taking out the trash. The first time I broke a man’s fingers, I thought I’d never stop shaking. Now it’s only muscle memory. The weight doesn’t goaway, though. If anything, it digs deeper. A hollow place, carved out and left empty.
I glance at the cracked mirror over the sink. My own reflection looks back: hard lines, scar bisecting my jaw, the flat gray of my eyes. There’s no softness left. People call me cruel, and maybe they’re right.
Or maybe they’re cowards who’d rather blame a man than face what they’ve built. Either way, I wear it like a badge.
A knock rattles the door. I grunt, and the foreman pokes his head in, eyes darting. “All done, Boss. Trucks are out.”
