I’ve worked until dawn blurred into night and back again. Until coffee went cold and untouched and reports stacked higher on my desk than they ever have before. I chased paper trails and financial reports, forced confessions out of men who thought silence would save them, and followed Enzo’s shadow until it dissolved into nothing and then doubled back again.
Somewhere out there is the man who ordered my brother’s execution. The man who thought he could hide behind borrowed loyalty from my father and believed I would never find out what really happened because my grief would prevent me from looking any deeper into the truth.
Until I find him, sleep will remain optional, pain will remain earned, and comfort will remain something I don’t allow myself to indulge in.
I glance at the clock on the far wall.
3:17 a.m.
I sigh.
Lightning flashes outside. Shadows leap across the room and the half-finished glass of whiskey I never bothered to clean up from last night. The reflection in the glass catches my eye—my own face hard and hollowed out, eyes nearly sunken in from what little rest I’ve been able to get.
I rise slowly, joints protesting as I push myself upright. The rain streaks down the windows in erratic lines that distort the worldbeyond it. The terrace lights glow faintly, blurred by water, and are soon swallowed entirely by the darkness.
I move closer to the windows, drawn there without quite understanding why.
Storms have always done this to me, recognizing something restless in my bones and answering in kind. Nights when I’d stand just like this with my face pressed to cold glass, watching lightning split across the sky and wondering if the violence outside was less dangerous than the violence trapped behind the windows.
My brother used to find me there far past my bedtime. He’d never scolded me, never asked why. He’d just lean against the wall beside me, arms crossed, his eyes tracking the storm like it was something we could outlast together.
“Can’t sleep?” he’d ask, already knowing the answer.
Sometimes, he’d stay. Sometimes, he’d ruffle my hair and tell me to get back to bed soon before leaving me to my thoughts again. But he always made sure I knew I wasn’t alone.
The memory tightens something in my chest.
I rest my hand against the glass now, fingers splayed, feeling the cold seep into my skin. I register it then, the absence of something I can’t yet name. I have the strangest sensation that something is wrong. Not imminently, just… wrong.
My jaw tightens.
I check the time again, then turn toward the door, already moving as the unease coils tighter in my gut with every step. I don’t stop until I’m outside Luca’s room. I don’t knock, either.For some strange reason, all logic leaves me as I turn the handle and push the door open.
The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the nightlight on the dresser. The storm hums distantly through the walls, softened here. For a split second, my mind expects to see two lumps sleeping beneath the blankets.
Instead what I find is the sheets thrown back like someone left in a hurry and the wardrobe across the way thrown open. Luca’s stuffed bear, given to him by one of my staff a few days ago, lies on the floor near the foot of the bed, its glassy eyes staring up at nothing.
Everything in me goes still.
I cross the room in two strides. “Elena?”
Something sharp twists deep inside my chest when all that greets me back is silence.
For a few seconds, I can’t move. My thoughts scatter, refusing to settle. My mind tries—stupidly, desperately—to make this make sense. Maybe Elena took him for a walk. Maybe he had been feeling restless from the storm and needed to work off some of that nervous energy.
Elena running, taking Luca and disappearing into the night like she did all those years ago, has always been a fear that’s lived somewhere in the back of my mind. A possibility I never allowed myself to dwell on too long because I knew I would go crazy if I had to hunt them down again.
My eyes dart to the window.
She wouldn’t leave like this. Not in the middle of a storm.
As my eyes scan the room again, my hand tightens around the bear until the seams strain between my fingers.
“Fuck,” I breathe out.
I turn on my heel and head back toward the door, fury and fear colliding into a singular and lethal weapon. This paralysis, this split second of doubt, is dangerous. If there’s one thing I know about Elena, it’s not to underestimate her.
She is not impulsive. Every choice she makes is calculated through layers of contingency and love, even when she pretends otherwise.Especiallywhen she pretends otherwise. This could be nothing more than a misunderstanding. She could be in another wing of the house curled up with Luca in one of the rooms she favors when she’s restless, waiting out the storm while Luca sleeps peacefully in her arms.
