Marcus turned off the engine. The car rolled to a stop at the foot of an old villa hidden behind cypress trees and tangled ivy. For a moment, the silence felt almost sacred. Only the breath of the sea behind the walls, and the soft whisper of leaves, broke it.
He turned to Nikoletta—not touching her, not reaching for her—just watching, too intently.
“Do you know who killed your mother?” he asked quietly.
Nikoletta slowly lifted her gaze to him. There was no fear in her eyes—only pain, raw and trembling like an exposed nerve.
“What kind of question is that?” she said hoarsely.
“A direct one.” His voice didn’t waver. “You always claim you like honesty. That you say the things others hide behind their smiles. So tell me. Do you know?”
She turned away, staring at the place where the sea
