DIGGING DEEP
1615 Words
By the time I get back to my apartment, the city feels louder than it should. Or maybe it’s just me.
Everything feels sharper. Every sound, every movement, every passing glance that lingers a second too long. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just the aftermath of what happened at the café.
Embarrassment has a way of making everything feel heavier than it is.
That’s all this is. It has to be.
I lock the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me. Unlike the café, there’s no noise here to distract me, no movement to blur the edges of my thoughts. Just stillness.
I push away from the door and move through the apartment on autopilot. My bag drops onto the chair. My shoes come off near the entrance. Everything falls into place exactly the way it always does, like routine is the only thing keeping everything else from slipping.
The bathroom light flickers once before steadying. I don’t look at the mirror immediately. I don’t want to see what I looked like back there
.
When I finally do, nothing about my reflection looks different. No visible cracks, no signs of what just happened. Just the same face, the same expression that’s learned how to stay neutral even when everything underneath it isn’t.
I turn the tap on, letting cold water run over my hands, then my face. It helps a little.
Not enough. The image flashes again. The man standing still. The way it felt. I shut my eyes for a second, forcing it away. It doesn’t go far.
By the time I step back into the living area, I already know what I’m going to do. I tell myself I won’t. That I should leave it alone, just like Nadia said. But my body is already moving, my fingers already pulling my laptop closer, flipping it open before I can convince myself otherwise. The screen lights up, cold and familiar.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then I type the name.
Luca De Santis.
The search results don’t load all at once.
They build.
And with each new line that appears, something in my chest tightens.
There are no normal articles.
No simple profiles.
No clean explanations.
Everything is fragmented. Indirect. Words that avoid saying what they mean while still making it clear enough for anyone paying attention.
‘Business magnate.’
‘Private investor.’
‘International connections.’
But beneath that, buried deeper, harder to access, the tone shifts.
Allegations. Investigations.
Disappearances tied loosely to financial disputes that never get resolved. Names of companies that don’t exist anymore. People who once spoke against him and then… stopped
There’s nothing solid.
Nothing that could hold up on its own. But together, it forms something else.
A pattern.
My eyes move faster now, scanning through pages, opening links that take longer to load, digging into spaces that don’t feel meant to be easily found.
The deeper I go, the clearer it becomes.
This isn’t just influence.
It’s control.
There are mentions of organized crime, never directly linked, always phrased as speculation or rumor. But the consistency is there. The repetition of the same associations, the same whispered connections.
Mafia.
The word sits there, heavy, undeniable even when it’s not officially confirmed.
Underboss.
That one appears less often. But when it does, it’s always in the same context. Power that doesn’t need to be proven to exist.
I scroll further.
A photograph appears. Not staged. Not public. Taken from a distance.
He’s standing beside a car, one hand resting casually against it, dressed in something too simple for the kind of presence he carries. There’s nothing exaggerated about him, nothing that tries too hard.
But there’s something else. Stillness. The same kind. My breath catches slightly.
It’s not the same man from the café.
I know that.
But the feeling…
It’s close enough to make something twist in my chest. I stare at the image longer than I should. There’s no emotion on his face. No expression that gives anything away. Just control. Complete and effortless.
A knock breaks through the silence.
Not the door.
My phone.
The screen lights up beside me.
Nadia.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then I answer.
“Hello?”
My voice sounds normal.
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Okay,” Nadia says slowly. “You sound like you’re either studying or doing something you definitely shouldn’t be doing.”
I don’t respond.
I don’t need to.
She exhales.
“You’re looking him up, aren’t you?”
There’s no point denying it.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Amara…”
Her tone shifts again.
Not sharp.
Not frustrated.
Worried.
“You need to leave that alone.”
“I just want to understand what I’m seeing.”
“No,” she says, firmer now. “You want to connect it to something that might not even be connected.”
“It is connected.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel it.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
I lean back slightly, my eyes still on the screen, on the name that doesn’t feel unfamiliar anymore.
“You said it yourself,” I tell her quietly. “He’s not someone random. He’s not someone normal. So why is his name in that report?”
Silence.
Then…
“Because people like him show up in places they shouldn’t be,” Nadia replies. “That doesn’t mean you should follow it.”
“It means something.”
“It means danger.”
The word lingers.
Heavy.
“You don’t get involved in things like this and walk away untouched,” she continues. “People like him don’t exist in a world where curiosity is harmless.”
My grip tightens slightly on the edge of the laptop.
“I’m not scared of a name.”
“You should be scared of what’s behind it.”
Another silence.
Tension sits between us now, stretched thin.
“Amara,” Nadia says again, softer this time. “Please. Just leave it.”
I look at the screen.
At the photo.
At the fragments of a life that feels too close to something I don’t fully understand yet.
“I can’t,” I say.
There’s no hesitation in it.
No uncertainty.
Just truth.
Nadia exhales, frustrated now.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“And you’re not listening to me.”
“Because what you’re saying doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
“When?”
“When I find it.”
“That’s not how this works-”
“I have to go.”
I cut her off before she can finish.
The silence on the other end is immediate.
Then…
“Amara-”
I end the call.
The room feels quieter after.
But not empty.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds longer before closing the laptop halfway, enough to dim the light but not shut it off completely.
My thoughts don’t slow down. They don’t settle. If anything, they move faster now, connecting things I hadn’t fully considered before.
The report. The name. The feeling. None of it feels separate anymore.
A sharp sound cuts through the silence.
The doorbell.
I freeze. It’s not loud. Just… there.
I glance toward the door, my body already tense in a way I can’t explain. No one’s supposed to be here. For a second, I don’t move.
Then it rings again. Shorter this time. Impatient.
“I’m coming,” I call out, my voice steady even though my chest feels tight.
I push myself up and walk toward the door, each step slower than the last. There’s no sound on the other side. No movement. Just silence.
I reach for the handle and hesitate for half a second before opening it. The hallway is empty. Completely. No footsteps. No retreating figure.
Nothing.
My eyes scan the space automatically, searching for something that should be there.
But there’s nothing.
Until I look down.
A package.
Small.
Plain.
Left right in front of my door.
Something about it feels wrong immediately.
Not because it’s there.
But because it feels expected.
Like it was always going to be there.
I crouch slightly, picking it up without thinking too much about it.
It’s light.
There’s no name on it.
No address.
Nothing that explains where it came from.
I step back inside and close the door slowly, locking it without taking my eyes off the box. The silence in the apartment feels different now.
Not empty.
Watching.
I set the package down on the table. For a moment, I just look at it. Trying to decide if I should open it. Trying to convince myself it’s nothing. But my hands are already moving.
The tape comes off too easily. The lid lifts without resistance.
Inside…
There’s only one thing.
A photograph.
My fingers hesitate for the first time. Then I pick it up.
And everything stops.
It’s her.
My mother.
Not from that night. Not from anything I remember clearly. This is different.
She’s standing outside, sunlight hitting her face, her expression soft, unaware of the moment being captured. It’s too clear. Too intentional. Not something taken casually.
Not something I’ve ever seen before. My chest tightens. This picture shouldn’t exist. Not here. Not like this.
My grip on the photo tightens slightly as something cold settles deep in my chest.
Because this isn’t random.
This isn't a coincidence.
This is a message.
And I don’t know which part is worse.
The fact that someone has it.
Or the fact that they knew exactly where to send it.
- Writer
