The wind cut the night in two. On the pier, the waves hit the concrete in steady beats, as if they were counting time.
The water shimmered with metallic reflections, black as oil, and the salt in the air stung the throat.
Leo stood still in front of the broken window of the old hangar, his gaze lost in the void.
Everything inside seemed suspended: the chains hanging from the ceiling, the creaking metal, even the echo of his breath. Only his mind refused to stop.
The roar of a distant engine made him turn.
A motorcycle approached slowly, its headlight slicing through the fog in a white cone. It stopped a few meters away.
Lieutenant Commander Lorenzo Ferri got off, shaking the rain off his shoulders. He wasn't wearing a formal uniform, but you could tell immediately, he carried himself like an order.
"Caruso."
"Sir."
They looked at each other for a moment.
Neither offered a handshake; it wasn't that kind of relationship.
"You kept me waiting," Ferri said, lighting a cigarette that burned almost instantly in the wind.
"It's not easy to leave the villa without being noticed."
"That's a good sign. If they can't see you, you're doing your job right."
Ferri inhaled slowly. The smoke drifted away like mist.
"We've got confirmation: Miguel Moreno will move the next shipment during his daughter's gallery inauguration. One night, one load. And you'll be there."
Leo's jaw tightened.
"His daughter's gallery?"
"Yes. That one."
"Why that night?"
"Because there'll be press, guests, spotlights. No one will suspect a shipment while the family's toasting success. Art always covers the filth."
Thunder rolled somewhere over the sea.
Leo clenched his jaw. "Do you want me to stay at the villa until then?"
"I want you to stay inside his trust. Until the end."
Ferri watched him with the calm of someone who weighs every word.
"He considers you his best man. Use that. But don't forget who you are."
Leo drew in a slow breath. The silence around them felt heavy, as if even the sea were listening.
Then he spoke, low, almost a confession.
"Sir, the daughter. She's afraid of men. She freezes if anyone gets too close. Do we know why?"
Ferri's cigarette smoke passed between them. The captain didn't move.
"It's not relevant to the mission."
"With respect, sir, maybe it is. If she's involved…"
"She isn't," he cut in, coldly. "And she won't be. That's irrelevant information. Focus on Miguel, not his daughter."
The tone was final.
Leo's jaw tightened.
"Understood, sir."
Ferri flicked his cigarette into a puddle. "We're counting on you, Caruso. Don't get distracted."
The phrase hung there, heavier than a reprimand. Ferri turned toward the bike, helmet in hand.
"You know what distraction is, Leo? The first step toward failure."
"And conscience?" Leo asked impulsively.
Ferri stopped, surprised.
"Conscience," he repeated quietly, "is a luxury we can't afford."
The engine roared, then faded into the distance. Leo stood alone. Wind entered through the hole in the roof, scattering a damp sheet of paper at his feet.
"Don't get distracted," he muttered.
He punched the railing. Then leaned on it, staring at the black expanse of water.
He thought of his own eyes, grey-green, shifting like the sea itself, and how much he hated what he saw reflected in them tonight.
He thought of her. Her trembling voice, those dark eyes that couldn't lie, the way her breath had lodged inside his lungs.
"She's just a girl, Leo. A damn girl."
He got on the bike. The engine tore through the silence and vanished in the roar of the waves.
Behind him, the sea kept watching.
The next morning, the Moreno Gallery buzzed with sound and smell.
Hammers, nails, rolls of fabric; the scent of fresh paint mingled with the aroma of Clara's coffee.
"Please tell me that after all this you're taking me to the Maldives," she grumbled, bent over a panel.
"I'll buy you a cappuccino," Naiara said, smiling.
"So generous."
They laughed, though exhaustion weighed on both of them.
Sunlight filtered warmly through the tall windows, and everything inside seemed ready to come alive.
Clara stepped back to check a photograph and saw Naiara standing still in the middle of the room, staring out the window.
"You're thinking about him."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. The blackout guy. The ghost with the stormy eyes."
"He's not a ghost."
"Oh, so you admit he exists."
Naiara smiled faintly.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" Clara put her hands on her hips. "You look like someone daydreaming. I know you too well."
Naiara didn't answer. His voice still echoed in her head, low and rough, calling her Tigna.
Every time she thought about it, her skin lit up as if he were touching her again.
Clara rested a hand on her shoulder.
"I don't know what's happening to you, Nay, but whatever it is… don't let it scare you."
"It's not fear," she lied.
She looked at the canvas in front of her.
A stormy sea: blue and green waves chasing each other like breaths. And in the darkest part of the painting, a faint shadow.
A face. Maybe his.
Evening fell slowly. The sky turned a deep violet, and the Moreno villa seemed larger than usual, as if the night itself had stretched its walls.
Her mother was out at a charity dinner, leaving behind the silence of absence.
Only the sound of the sea broke the stillness.
When she heard a knock, Naiara was trying on a dress.
The housekeeper, perfectly composed as always, appeared at the door.
"Mr. Miguel would like to see you in his study, Miss."
She descended the staircase slowly, the sound of her heels echoing on the marble.
Each step felt like a premonition.
Miguel was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by papers and golden light.
A half-finished glass of whisky at hand, and the look of a man who had already made up his mind.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes."
He stood, adjusting his sleeves. "I don't like you being alone. The gallery will draw attention. I have… many enemies."
"Dad, not again. I have two guards downstairs, and…"
"It's not enough."
The tone changed, hard, final.
"From today, you'll have personal protection. A man I trust completely. He'll be with you everywhere. It's for your safety."
She frowned.
"A bodyguard? Really? Don't you think that's ridiculous?"
"It's necessary."
"Dad, please, I don't need…"
"He's already here."
The words cut through her like a blade.
"Already here?"
"He's been waiting for you to finish getting ready. Don't argue, Naiara. Trust me, for once."
Trust me. Two words she could no longer believe.
"Fine," she said at last, trying to sound indifferent. "But I hope he's not one of your brainless thugs."
Miguel smiled, a smile she didn't like.
"Oh, no. He's different. One of my best men."
Footsteps echoed from the next room.
Steady. Confident.
Naiara's heartbeat quickened for no reason.
She turned slightly, stopping just before she could see.
"He's here," said Miguel calmly.
She took a slow breath, the fabric of her dress sliding against her skin. The door opened quietly. A tall figure entered, outlined by the golden light of the sunset.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
"Naiara," Miguel said, "meet your new bodyguard."
She turned to look at him.
And the world stopped.