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His tie is crooked, as always. His eyes carry that brand of sincerity that looks rehearsed in mirrors. He greets me with a sigh of false relief. “You’re hard to find.”

“Not hard enough.” My guard is already up.

He starts talking fast. FBI. Task force. Volkov escalation, intel breach, and witness relocation.

He says he can protect my mother and me…if I help them. My stomach twists. Every instinct shrieks, No.

“We know more than you think,” Jacob says in a low voice. “On the night Vincent was murdered, the Volkovs were already there when Enzo arrived. Now we’re trying to figure out who massacred so many of the men at the manor where Enzo found you.”

The words don’t land. Instead, they hover, waiting for me to grasp them.

“Help you how?” My arms cross instinctively, the way Enzo taught me to block an emotional strike.

Jacob shifts his weight. Won’t meet my eyes. “We’ve been…monitoring you. Your phone. Movements.” He raises his hands defensively. “For your safety.”

I snap. In a rage, I throw my phone against a brick wall. The device shatters with a satisfying crack. “Feel safer already,” I claim through clenched teeth.

“Jesus, Soph.” He looks startled, maybe even impressed. “You’ve changed.”

That’s no compliment.

Before he has a chance to add anything more, I take off. My heart races, and the city fades around me. For the very first time, I realize that everybody wants to use me. The FBI, the Volkovs, even the Benedettis. Every one of them except Enzo.

He wanted me for me, even when it was to his detriment.

I pass a man smoking as he waits for the crosswalk to signal go. For a second, the shape of his jaw resembles Enzo’s. My chest stutters, but it isn’t him.

He wouldn’t come looking for me. Not now. Not after what happened.

Yet, the persistent pain remains like the reverberation of a heartbeat that simply will not fade.

On my way home, I stop for a prepaid burner since my number’s compromised.

Back at my apartment, the morning’s coffee has gone cold. The piercing, bitter scent lingers like remorse. I drain the drink into the sink, take a long bath, and change my clothes.

As I reluctantly sit down to go over another round of job listings and make a few calls, Jacob’s voice flashes in my memory. “The Volkovs were already there when Enzo arrived.”

A tremor runs through me. It’s too perfect. The setup, the recording, the betrayal. Even from the grave, Vincent’s fingerprints are all over this.

And god…Enzo.

I told him I couldn’t trust him. Let him believe I chose Vincent over him.

Jacob answers on the second ring and immediately recognizes my voice. “Sophia?”

“Tell me,” I demand. No real greeting. No breath wasted. “Vincent. Who killed him?”

Silence stretches, thick and slow, broken only by typing and the shift of papers. The low hum of government bureaucracy feels obscene against the storm brewing inside me.

“Enzo didn’t do it if that’s what you’re asking.” Jacob’s tone is stripped of pretense. “We confirmed it was the Volkovs.”

The world tilts, the floor vanishes, and my hand grips the phone until it squeaks. “He found the body?”

“Yes. That’s when he went dark. The Bureau thinks his warpath is about revenge, not rebellion. He’s not covering anything up. He’s avenging him.”

A near-sob breaks from my throat. The world won’t stop spinning.

“I told him he was a murderer.”