"Karl Löwendeld— my father's greatest enemy.."
I sat back in the leather chair of my office, the faint hum of Edinburgh streets leaking through the half-closed blinds. The golden glow of my desk lamp pooled over my table.
I turned to my right, where my trusted man, Marco, leaned casually against the bookshelf, arms crossed. "Find anything?" he asked.
I didn't look up immediately. Tapping the trackpad, I pulled Serene Löwendeld's file into focus and let the name sit a second like a splinter under skin. "Serene," I said, slow. "Karl Löwendeld's—ex. Wife, our late friend, by the books. Reporter. Sharp. Annoyingly principled." I let the word land where it hurt.
Marco's face changed—interest, then the small, eager grin of a man who loves puzzles. "Karl Löwendeld? The old MIU lion? He really married a journalist?"
"Married, separated, law, betrayed—pick your verb." I kept my voice light, almost amused, because people don't prepare for charm that cuts.
"It's just second hand…"
"Karl sold his family or a clean and bright future that he think he can hide his dirty hands . Papers signed, favors called in. Men who think clean hands make them bulletproof—foolish, really." I smiled, polite, and the smile was a tool; it sharpened the sentence.
Marco folded his arms. "So we dig the tree?"
He chuckled. "Little wolf—Anna, right? She's the loose element?"
"She's not worth mentioning at the moment," I said, voice low, smooth—almost intimate. "But her past… interests me far more than her old man."
Marco trying to open the file to see what Anna looking like.
None.
I shrugged, the move casual, dismissive. "A small, quiet wolf. Sharp teeth but softly heart . She not giving a fuck about continue her "dad" career. Karl's retirement gave the family a false sense of calm. Retirements are theatrical. People applaud, they tuck the files in a drawer, then they sleep easier until someone knocks."
"You're cute, asking for the order." I poured a glass of something dark, watched the liquid catch the lamp. "Start with the father. Men who've been burned keep embers. People he humiliated—find them. Find the promotions that should have gone to someone else, the transfers that smelled of politics, the quiet shames. Then trace who benefited. Then we whisper." I smiled—soft, practiced. "Whispers make decent people do pathetic things."
Marco's eyes gleamed. "And if Karl sees it? If he goes loud?"
I leaned forward, voice suddenly without sugar. "Let him shout. The louder he gets, the more he reveals. We don't need to paint him a villain—only to prod and watch the stain spread." I closed the laptop gently, like closing a door on someone else's secrets. "And be elegant about it. No sloppy fire. Make them tidy mistakes. Humiliate politely."
"And the daughter?"
"…"
"…"
"We will see if she worth to be played with or not…"
"She's touched the Mockingbird," I murmured. "That means she's getting closer. Much closer than I expected."
Marco hesitated. "What do you want to do with her?"
I looked over my shoulder. "Nothing. Yet." I turned back to the map, tracing a line between Scotland and Berlin with my finger. "You see, Marco, the Löwendelds have this charming habit of believing they're the hunters. But their blood—" I tapped the line "—was made to be tracked."
Marco asked. "What do you want to do with her?"
I looked over my shoulder. "Nothing. Yet." I turned back to the map, tracing a line between Scotland and Berlin with my finger. "You see, Marco, the Löwendelds—…ah, no, the Macrae have this charming habit of believing they're the hunters. But their blood—" I tapped the line "—was made to be tracked."
I stubbed out my cigarette and reached for the wine bottle. "Where is she now?"
"With a former cop. Bulvok. They're reopening the casedue to MIU news."
That made me laugh — low and sharp. "Reopening," I repeated. "As if it was ever closed." I poured myself a glass, the sound of the liquid soft against the silence. "Send her this letter. Quietly. I want a bait, no cops, just her. She's not to be touched… not until I decide how to play her."
Marco nodded. "Understood."
I raised the glass slightly in his direction. "Alastair and Karl thinks he can protect her by sending her away," I said. "But tell me, Marco — when has a lamb ever been safe just because it follows another sheep?"
For a while, we both looked out the window. The stables below were quiet, fog rolling over the track. One of the horses whinnied softly — restless, hungry.
"Prepare the car," I said finally. "We're going to De Monttana tonight."
Marco just smirked, then leaving without words.
I stayed by the window, watching the mist swallow the fields. "If fate wants to amuse itself by sending me a Löwendeld girl…" I murmured, mostly to myself, "…then let's see how long she can keep her balance before the ground gives way."