They searched for her everywhere.
Every safe house. Every hidden street. Every inch of shoreline she used to haunt.
But Elira Vale was nowhere.
And the only thing she left behind was a single, looping security video—emailed to both Soren and Damien at dawn.
No words.
No signature.
Just a timestamp.
They watched it together, tension tight enough to snap bone.
Elira stood in a hotel lobby in Florence. Rain slicking her coat. No luggage. No guards.
And then—she walked straight to a man waiting in the shadows.
Tall. In a charcoal suit. His face unseen.
But when she reached him…
She kissed him.
A deep, knowing kiss.
Then she handed him something—wrapped in red velvet.
The screen went black.
—
“She planned this,” Damien said, pacing.
“She staged it,” Soren corrected, jaw tight.
