Chapter 14 — Shadows in Athens
1072 Words
The silence in the safe house didn’t last long.
The moment after the gunshot echoed through the corridor, Dante spun, weapon drawn, pushing Christina behind him as a reflex. He didn’t wait. His boots hit the marble tiles hard as he stormed toward the back door—silent, fast, deadly.
He’d spent a lifetime knowing when a place stopped being safe.
This one had turned cold in seconds.
The lights flickered overhead. Somewhere near the basement, a second thud followed—heavier, almost like a body hitting the floor. Christina’s breath caught.
“Stay here,” Dante hissed, already moving.
But she didn’t.
She followed silently, barefoot, holding a kitchen knife she had grabbed in the panic. Her hands trembled, but her steps were steady. She wasn’t that girl from the docks anymore.
Dante reached the door first. With his back against the frame, he counted to three, then kicked it open.
The smell of cordite and blood rushed out.
Inside, slumped in a chair, was Nikos, one of Giorgos’ trusted men—dead, a bullet clean through his temple. His laptop lay open on the desk, and next to it, an earpiece still buzzing faintly.
Dante cursed. “Merda…”
Christina stepped inside behind him, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth.
“Who did this?” she whispered.
Dante crouched beside the body. His jaw tightened as he pulled a small metal device from Nikos’ pocket. A tracker. Activated.
“They found us because of this,” he muttered. “Someone marked our location.”
“Are you saying Giorgos—?”
“I don’t know,” Dante interrupted, voice sharp, but his eyes betrayed him. He did know. Or feared.
It was someone close. Too close.
⸻
Hours later, the sun was rising over Athens, casting gold across the old rooftops and ancient ruins beyond. From the small balcony of the safe house, you could see the tip of the Acropolis in the distance—timeless, unshaken.
But inside, the world was shifting.
Dante leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping cold espresso, blood still on his sleeve. Christina sat cross-legged on the worn sofa, silent, her thoughts louder than anything.
That’s when the door buzzed.
A single, sharp chime.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. No one should know they were still here.
He drew his gun and stepped to the door.
When he opened it, the woman standing there wasn’t a threat—she was a storm.
Tall, elegant, wearing a black coat and dark sunglasses, her presence filled the hall like thunder before the rain.
Athina.
She removed her glasses slowly, revealing eyes that burned like amber.
“You’re her,” Christina said before Dante could speak. “You knew my father.”
Athina nodded. “I knew him. And I know why you’re here.”
⸻
They sat around the table, the city humming softly outside. Athina unfolded a yellowed piece of paper and pushed it toward Christina.
“This arrived at a dead drop in Plaka two days ago. It’s addressed to you. Your father planned every step of this—years before he disappeared.”
Christina’s fingers brushed over the old envelope. Her name was written in slanted, Greek script. The scent of tobacco and time still clung to it.
Inside was a set of coordinates, a drawing of a key, and a single phrase in Greek:
“Όποιος θυμάται, δεν πέθανε ποτέ.”
“He who remembers… has never truly died.”
And beneath it:
A monastery’s name. Hidden in the hills north of Athens.
Dante stared at it. “It’s a trap.”
Athina shook her head. “It’s an answer.”
⸻
They left before nightfall.
The road to the monastery was long and wound through pine-covered hills. By the time they arrived, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in bleeding shades of purple and gold.
The monastery rose before them like something out of myth—stone walls worn smooth by centuries, tall cypress trees swaying in the summer wind, and a silence so thick it seemed sacred.
But even here, Dante didn’t relax.
Christina walked ahead, the envelope clutched to her chest.
A monk greeted them silently, led them through candle-lit halls, and stopped at a heavy wooden door.
He handed Christina a small iron key.
“He left it with us,” the monk said quietly. “Years ago. Told us to wait for his blood.”
⸻
Inside the chamber, dust danced in the shafts of moonlight. At the center sat a wooden chest, locked with a simple iron mechanism.
Christina stepped forward. Her hand trembled as she fit the key into the lock and turned.
Click.
The lid creaked open.
Inside, wrapped in faded linen, were documents—some typed, some handwritten. Photos. Maps. A cassette tape. And a sealed folder marked with a red “Λ”.
Dante lifted a photo—it was a surveillance shot, grainy, but unmistakable.
Giorgos. With Serpent operatives. Dated six years ago.
“Figlio di puttana…” Dante breathed. “He played all sides.”
Athina took the folder and flipped it open, scanning the contents.
“Codes,” she murmured. “These are access keys. Your father knew the Serpents were building something—something bigger. This… this is the key to stop it.”
Christina’s voice cracked. “And he died for it.”
“No,” Athina said. “He disappeared for it. There’s a difference.”
⸻
They left the monastery under starlight, their hearts heavier, but their path clearer.
In the car, Christina stared out the window, her voice soft but certain.
“I don’t trust Giorgos anymore.”
Dante nodded. “Neither do I.”
Athina sat in the backseat, arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades.
“There’s more,” she said. “But it can’t be spoken. Not yet.”
“What do you mean?” Dante asked.
Her smile was cryptic. “Let’s just say… your father wasn’t only planning for escape. He was planning for war.”
⸻
And far away, in a dark office deep beneath a marble villa, Giorgos watched them on a monitor—silent, his expression unreadable.
He reached for his phone.
Dialed a number burned into his memory.
No names. No words.
Just one phrase:
“Activate I Skies.”
Then he hung up.
And somewhere east, the storm began to move.
- Writer
