Vittorio’s POV – The Mountain Safehouse
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Not from pain. Not anymore. From rage. From memory.
I stared down at the rough sketch on the paper. Lines smudged. Shadow where a face should be.
The man who pulled me from the water.
. I’d been seeing it every night since the crash—arms dragging me to shore, voice yelling my name, but always just out of reach. Always blurred. That face—half-formed, soaked, blurry. The one that pulled me from the water. It haunted me. Mocked me.
I couldn’t draw it right. Couldn’t pin it down.
And it was driving me insane.
“You see him?” I muttered. “Then show me your face, bastard.”
What if I’d imagined him? What if no one pulled me from the water and I’d clawed my way out like some half-dead beast?
Or worse—what if someone
