The silence on the island had become a living thing. For two days, the villa…a crumbling stone fortress of Moretti secrets had felt like a sanctuary. Now, as the dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light hitting the mahogany table, it felt like a tomb.
The leather-bound book sat between us, its pages smelling of old vellum and dried ink.
Beside it, the sleek, silver digital drive looked like an alien artefact. It was a collision of two worlds: my father’s old-school record-keeping and the Syndicate’s modern greed.
"It’s not just a map, Ophelia," Ryker said, his voice a low rasp that broke the stillness. He hadn't slept more than three hours since we arrived. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were rimmed with the red fatigue of a man who lived ten steps ahead of a
