Ghosts Beneath Glass
1414 Words
The night air was cool as Alessia stepped out onto the DeLuca estate’s rooftop terrace. The view from the top floor was pristine—hills folding into the horizon, city lights blinking like scattered embers far in the distance. The party below still pulsed with muted jazz and laughter, but out here, everything was quieter.
Too quiet.
She leaned against the railing, careful not to wince as the bandaged cut on her palm throbbed beneath her glove. The blood oath had sealed her place at the table, but it had also cracked something inside her—something personal. The ritual had been a ceremony for them. But for her, it was a grave.
The moon cast a silver sheen over her dress. Somewhere behind her, footsteps sounded—measured, deliberate.
She didn’t turn.
“You followed me.”
Lorenzo’s voice was warm, almost casual. “You left before dessert. That’s a crime in this family.”
“I prefer fresh air to tiramisu.”
A pause. Then: “You didn’t hesitate. Back there.”
She finally glanced over her shoulder.
“I’m not afraid of knives.”
“Most people are. Even when they pretend otherwise.” He stepped beside her. “That was a message. To Silvio. To Adriano.”
“To you,” she added.
He smiled faintly. “Maybe.”
The silence stretched again, broken only by the wind playing with her hair. Alessia noticed the way he studied her—not with lust, but something harder to read. Curiosity. Suspicion. Or worse, understanding.
He was more dangerous than she remembered.
Not because he was powerful, but because he knew how to observe. He didn’t miss things.
“You’re not like the others,” he said. “Most people who come here want something. You’re… waiting.”
“For what?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
She turned to fully face him now. “Is that how you see people? In categories of threat or value?”
He shrugged. “There are only two kinds of people in this world—those who play the game, and those who get buried by it.”
“And which one am I?”
His eyes glinted. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed inside the clutch at her side.
She frowned. No one was supposed to contact her on this number unless it was Gabriel.
She opened the message: a single photo.
Her heart skipped.
It was a surveillance shot—grainy but clear enough. A man in a hooded sweatshirt entering a bar in Venice. Even distorted, she knew the face beneath the shadow.
Diego.
Her brother’s best friend. The last loyal Moretti before it all went to hell. And the one man who knew Alessia had survived the m******e.
The message had no sender name. Just a timestamp and a location: Bar Marechiaro, 12:47 a.m.
Lorenzo tilted his head. “Bad news?”
Alessia slipped the phone back into her purse, her expression unreadable. “Just someone who owes me money.”
Lorenzo gave a low chuckle. “Remind me never to get on your debt list.”
She smiled tightly, but her mind was already spiraling.
Why was Diego in Venice now? Was he watching her? Trying to protect her? Or worse—was he planning something reckless?
He could expose her. Not deliberately. But one wrong conversation… one drunk memory shared with the wrong ear… and she would be dead before morning.
She needed to leave. Now.
“I should get back to my hotel,” she said. “Early meeting tomorrow.”
Lorenzo studied her again. “Let me drive you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
And just like that, the devil offered her a ride.
The drive was quiet. A sleek black Bentley with tinted windows, the soft hum of Vivaldi playing from the speakers. Lorenzo drove like a man used to control—one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console.
“Do you always carry yourself like you’re untouchable?” he asked at one point, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Do you always ask questions you already know the answer to?”
He smirked. “Touché.”
They arrived at the hotel—an upscale tower overlooking the bay. Lorenzo pulled up to the private entrance but didn’t kill the engine.
He turned to her, expression unreadable. “You remind me of someone.”
Her heart stuttered.
“Someone I knew?” she asked, keeping her tone even.
He shook his head. “No. Someone I once tried to kill.”
There it was. A test. A slip of his poker face, or bait to see how she'd react.
She gave a soft laugh. “How charming.”
He tilted his head. “He didn’t flinch either. Right up until the last second.”
Alessia opened the car door. “Good night, Lorenzo.”
He didn’t stop her.
But his voice followed her out. “Be careful, Eva. The closer you get to fire, the easier it is to forget you’re flammable.”
She didn’t go to her hotel suite. Not right away.
Instead, she took a car to the edge of the city, slipped through two back alleys, and climbed the fire escape of a half-abandoned building overlooking a bar with flickering neon signage: Marechiaro.
At 12:46 a.m., Diego walked out.
She was already waiting.
He nearly jumped when he saw her on the rooftop above.
“Alessia?! Madre di Dio— Are you insane?”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “Get up here.”
He climbed, grumbling under his breath, until he swung himself over the edge.
Up close, Diego looked older. Gaunter. Eyes sunken, nose still crooked from that fight he lost in ’18. But there was still that spark—reckless, loyal, and utterly unpredictable.
“I came to warn you,” he said. “They’ve got people watching your movements. Someone’s getting nervous inside the DeLuca circle.”
“I know,” she replied. “That’s the plan.”
He stared at her. “What plan involves dancing with the man who killed your father?”
Her jaw clenched.
“He didn’t kill him,” she said quietly. “He ordered it. I’m getting close to that order—one step at a time.”
Diego exhaled. “This isn’t what Enzo wanted for you. Your brother—he made me promise—”
“My brother is dead.” Her voice cracked. “They made sure of that. You want to keep your promise? Don’t get in my way.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. But instead, he pulled something from his coat pocket—a USB drive.
“This was sent anonymously,” he said. “Encrypted files. Military-grade. Might be connected to Project Albatross.”
Alessia blinked. “That was shut down five years ago.”
“Exactly. So why is it back on DeLuca’s ledger?”
Her stomach turned cold.
If Project Albatross was in play again—covert arms deals disguised as humanitarian shipments—then Lorenzo wasn’t just laundering money. He was controlling conflict.
Wars.
Assassinations.
And possibly… her family’s downfall.
“I’ll decrypt it,” she said. “Go dark. No contact.”
“Alessia—”
“I mean it.”
He finally nodded, and for a moment, she saw the boy he used to be. The boy who snuck her out to watch street fights when her father forbid it. The boy who cried at her brother’s funeral.
“Don’t die,” he said gruffly.
She gave a faint smile. “Not until I kill him.”
Back in her hotel suite, Alessia sat alone, the USB drive glowing faintly in her hand.
Below her, the city moved like a machine—indifferent, merciless.
She booted up her private laptop, air-gapped and scrubbed clean by Gabriel. As the decryption software ran, she glanced at her reflection in the darkened window.
Her eyes didn’t look like hers anymore.
Not the girl who once danced barefoot in olive groves. Not the daughter who dreamed of building peace from the ashes of crime.
She was someone else now.
Someone they had created.
Someone who would burn their empire to the ground—and walk through the smoke without blinking.
And behind her, the computer pinged softly.
Files decrypted.
- Writer
