Night had fallen hard on the city.
The streets glowed under yellow lamps, rain soaking the roads until they reflected the sky like broken glass.
Across town, in a quiet villa near the north end, Marco’s wife, Clara, was washing dishes when her phone buzzed on the counter. She wiped her wet hands on a towel and picked it up, smiling faintly when she saw an unknown number.
“Hello?” she said.
There was no voice at first, only breathing. Then a man spoke, calm and low.
“Your son has a nice school uniform, Mrs. Moretti.”
Her smile vanished. “Who is this?”
The man chuckled softly.
“You should really check your messages.”
The line went dead.
Clara’s hand trembled as she opened her phone. A photo appeared — her son, Matteo, walking down the street in his school uniform, backpack slung on
