Chapter 3
1159 Words
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.
Serena smiled when customers entered.
She wrapped bouquets with steady hands.
She thanked people for their purchases.
No one would have guessed that beneath her calm expression, her thoughts were unraveling.
By closing time, she had replayed Detective Conti’s words so many times they no longer sounded real.
“Your family wasn’t caught in the crossfire. They were hunted.”
The sentence echoed through every corner of her mind.
After locking the shop, Lucia caught up with her outside.
“Walk with me?”
Serena nodded.
The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of rain from somewhere beyond the city.
“You’ve been distracted all day,” Lucia said gently. “Did something happen?”
Serena hesitated.
Lucia had been more than an employer these past three years. She had offered Serena a job when no one else would, never asked too many questions about her past, and quietly slipped groceries into her bag whenever money was tight.
For one reckless moment, Serena wanted to tell her everything.
About the photographs.
The lilies.
The phone calls.
The detective.
Instead, she smiled faintly.
“Just bad dreams.”
Lucia squeezed her arm.
“Whatever is chasing you, don’t let it steal your future.”
The words lingered long after they parted ways.
Whatever is chasing you.
Serena wasn’t sure whether it was her past…
Or someone made of flesh and blood.
That night, rain drummed softly against her apartment windows.
She pulled the shoebox from beneath her bed and placed it on the floor.
One by one, she spread the photographs across the rug.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-seven photographs taken over Five years.
She studied them carefully.
A train station.
A supermarket.
A bookstore.
Outside the flower shop.
Crossing a bridge.
Standing in line at a pharmacy.
At first glance, they seemed random.
But tonight…
Something caught her eye.
She leaned closer.
Every photograph had been taken from a high vantage point.
A balcony.
A second story window.
A rooftop.
Never from the street.
Never close enough for her to notice.
Whoever had taken them wasn’t an amateur.
They were patient.
Disciplined.
Professional.
She reached for the oldest photograph.
Then the newest.
Her breath caught.
In the reflection of a café window, barely visible behind her…
Was the outline of a man.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Dressed entirely in black.
She had never noticed him before.
Quickly, she searched through the others.
Her pulse quickened.
There.
Again.
Outside the train station.
Only half his face visible behind a newspaper.
Another.
Across a crowded piazza.
Standing beside a black sedan.
Another.
Watching from beneath an umbrella.
Always blurred.
Always distant.
Always there.
For five years…
The same man had appeared in nearly every photograph.
Serena’s heart hammered.
He hadn’t just been taking the pictures.
He had been following her.
Watching.
Waiting.
Protecting…
Or hunting.
She didn’t know which possibility frightened her more.
Just then, her apartment lights flickered once.
Then twice.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A loud knock shattered the silence.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Exactly the same rhythm as the night before.
Serena froze.
Then came a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
Low.
Calm.
“Miss Romano.”
A pause.
“You don’t have much time.”
Her blood turned to ice.
Serena didn’t move.
The voice beyond the door was steady. Patient.
As if the man already knew she was standing there with one hand clutched over her racing heart.
“Miss Romano.”
Another knock.
“You have thirty seconds.”
She forced herself to breathe.
“What do you want?” she called, hating how shaky her voice sounded.
No answer.
Only silence.
She reached into the kitchen drawer and wrapped trembling fingers around the largest knife she owned. It felt ridiculous against whoever might be outside, but it was something.
Slowly, she approached the peephole.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty.
A flicker of confusion crossed her face.
She unlocked the chain and opened the door a fraction.
No one.
Only a small black envelope resting neatly on the welcome mat.
She scanned both ends of the corridor.
Empty.
She snatched the envelope and hurried back inside, locking every bolt.
Unlike the others, this envelope was heavier.
Inside wasn’t another note.
It was a key.
Old.
Brass.
Its edges were worn smooth with age.
Tied to it was a tiny leather tag embossed with a symbol she hadn’t seen since she was twenty.
The Romano family crest.
Her knees nearly gave way.
Impossible.
The crest had disappeared the night the mansion burned.
Every heirloom…
Every document…
Every vault key…
Gone.
Yet here it was.
A key that should no longer exist.
Beneath it lay a folded sheet of paper.
Her pulse hammered as she unfolded it.
Locker 317. Milano Centrale Station. Midnight. Come alone. Burn this after reading.
No signature.
Nothing else.
Her eyes drifted back to the brass key.
She didn’t recognize it.
But somehow…
It felt familiar.
At 11:47 p.m., Serena stood across from Milano Centrale Station.
Rain coated the marble steps, reflecting the station’s towering lights.
This was insane.
Every instinct told her to walk away.
Instead, she tightened her coat around herself and stepped inside.
The station was quieter than usual.
A few exhausted travelers dragged suitcases toward the platforms.
A janitor pushed a mop across the polished floor.
No one looked at her twice.
She found the lockers tucked along a side corridor.
Locker 317.
Her fingers hovered over the lock.
This was a trap.
It had to be.
Yet if someone wanted her dead…
Why all the riddles?
Why not simply kill her?
Swallowing hard, she inserted the brass key.
Click.
The door swung open.
Inside sat a battered leather briefcase.
Nothing else.
She lifted it out.
It was surprisingly heavy.
There was no lock.
She unfastened the clasps.
Inside…
Stacks of files.
Old photographs.
Bank statements.
Newspaper clippings about the Romano m******e.
A flash drive.
And resting on top…
A sealed envelope with her name written across it.
Not Rossi.
Serena Romano.
Her breath caught.
She opened it.
A single handwritten letter slipped into her hands.
The handwriting was elegant.
Feminine.
The ink slightly faded.
She read the first line.
My dearest Serena…
Tears filled her eyes.
She knew that handwriting.
She had spent years tracing those looping letters in birthday cards and bedtime notes.
It was her mother’s.
Her mother had died five years ago.
Her shaking eyes dropped to the final sentence.
If you are reading this, then I have escaped.
Serena’s world stopped.
Escaped?
Not survived.
Not hidden.
Escaped.
Before she could process the words, a deafening gunshot echoed through the station.
The briefcase exploded from her hands.
Paper flew into the air like snow.
People screamed.
A second bullet shattered the locker behind her.
Someone wasn’t trying to scare her.
Someone was trying to make sure she never read the rest of her mother’s letters….
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