Chapter Two: Leave or Live
1041 Words
Valentina didn’t leave the room for hours.
She sat by the window with the file still open across her lap, watching the waves crash into the cliffs below like they were trying to climb their way out of the sea.
Lucian didn’t check on her. Not once.
Smart man.
She needed space or more accurately, she needed to keep herself from stabbing him with something sharp.
He knew things about her life that she didn’t. Had photos of her with men she didn’t remember. And now she had a mark on her back that someone branded into her while she slept.
No one survives that kind of silence without bleeding.
By sunset, she walked into the hallway and headed toward the sound of water. She found Lucian in a room that looked like it belonged to a war criminal or a chess grandmaster—stone floors, black leather armchairs, and a map on the wall dotted with red pins.
He stood with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, pouring whiskey into two glasses.
He handed her one without a word.
Valentina took it, stared at it for a second, and then drank.
It burned going down, but at least it burned on her terms.
Lucian didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“Bellini’s men are still asking around in Marseille. If they find out you’re here”
“They won’t,” she cut in.
He turned. “You sure?”
“Dead sure.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. “Don’t joke about that.”
She stared at him.
“You know what I meant.”
He didn’t answer. Just took a drink and motioned to a file on the table beside the map.
Another file.
“What is it this time?” she asked. “More photos of me in places I don’t remember?”
“Worse,” he said.
She opened the file.
And her breath caught.
It was a photo of a girl olive skin, thick dark hair in a braid, silver necklace, combat boots.
She looked maybe sixteen.
Maybe younger.
And she was standing beside Valentina.
Smiling.
Alive.
Valentina blinked.
“That’s not possible,” she said.
Lucian’s voice was quiet.
“Isabella.”
Valentina backed up a step.
“No.”
“She’s alive.”
“No, she’s not,” Valentina snapped. “Isabella died in Palermo. I buried her myself.”
Lucian picked up a second photo.
Same girl. Older now. Same necklace. Same braid.
Walking into a hotel in Prague last week.
Valentina’s knees buckled.
She caught the edge of the table.
Lucian crossed the room but didn’t touch her.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Until last night. She was spotted coming out of a safehouse we’ve been watching.”
Valentina looked up, eyes wild. “You’re telling me my sister faked her death?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, “someone made you believe she was dead.”
Later that night, Lucian pulled out a flash drive and plugged it into the screen mounted on the wall.
“I didn’t show you everything before,” he said.
Valentina folded her arms, her back still aching from the mark.
“What now?”
Lucian pressed play.
The footage was grainy, black and white, surveillance.
But unmistakable.
Valentina.
In a hotel lobby.
Laughing.
Talking to Isabella.
And not just in passing. It was a deep conversation. Familiar. Safe.
Like they’d met there on purpose.
Valentina shook her head. “This is doctored.”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t remember this.”
Lucian looked at her. “Then you need to start asking why.”
That night, she searched her own skin.
Found a faint bruise under her left ear.
Too symmetrical to be accidental.
A needle mark.
Someone drugged her.
Repetitively.
In her dreams, Clara was still alive.
Still walking through the Benedetto house like she owned it. Wearing perfume that smelled like blood and rosewater. Whispering about obedience like it was a gift.
When Valentina woke, her hands were clenched into fists.
She’d scratched her own arms in her sleep.
Lucian was already awake. Reading something in the hallway.
He handed it to her without a word.
It was a message.
Scrawled on hotel stationery.
“Next time, don’t run alone.”
No name. No signature.
Just a symbol at the bottom.
The same one burned into her back.
Valentina felt her stomach twist.
Lucian saw her reaction.
“You’ve seen it before.”
She didn’t deny it.
Just whispered, “Clara used it. On letters she sent to… someone.”
“To who?”
She met his eyes.
“I thought she was sending them to my father.”
Lucian froze.
“I thought your father was dead.”
“He is,” she said quietly. “I saw the body. I identified it.”
Lucian shook his head.
“No. You saw a body. That’s not the same.”
There was a storm that night.
Wind howling.
Power flickering.
Valentina stood by the window watching lightning fork across the sea like it was carving a path.
Lucian came up behind her.
He didn’t touch her.
Just said, “There’s one more thing.”
She didn’t turn.
“Of course there is.”
He handed her a phone.
Paused.
Then said:
“We received an intercepted message from Bellini’s crew. They were hired by someone inside the Moretti family.”
Valentina finally turned.
“You’re saying your own people paid to have me sold?”
Lucian nodded once.
“And we have a name.”
“Who?”
Lucian’s face was unreadable.
He looked her in the eyes.
And said:
“Alessandra.”
Valentina’s breath vanished.
Her sister.
The only blood she had left.
The only person she believed hadn’t abandoned her.
The one who sent her a necklace the night before she was taken.
A necklace she wore the day she was sold.
She felt dizzy.
Lucian caught her arm.
“I’m sorry.”
Valentina stared at the floor.
“Why?”
“I didn’t know she’d turn.”
“No,” Valentina whispered. “I meant why tell me now?”
Lucian’s eyes burned.
“Because you’re running out of people you can trust.”
- Writer
