The Romano estate was rarely still for a moment.
By the time the first rays of dawn touched the marble floors, Leonardo Romano was already awake, sitting in his private study with a glass of whiskey in front of him that he hadn't so much as sipped. His dark hair fell loosely over his forehead, and the light from the window caught the hard line of his jaw.
He wasn't thinking of the dead, he was thinking of the living.
One woman in particular: Isabella Moren.
The very name itself sounded fragile, soft. A contrast so sharp, it made his mind itch. He had seen pictures—few, grainy ones that Alex managed to dig up from their sources. Every record about her was sealed, every trace erased from public systems. Her life was hidden, protected like something precious.
Which made her even more valuable.
The door creaked open behind him. Alex came in quietly, holding a manila folder. He looked exhausted, his shirt collar undone, and his expression a mix of loyalty and unease.
"She's clean," he said, setting the folder on the polished mahogany desk. "No scandals, no enemies, nothing suspicious. She doesn't even have a social footprint. It's like Belrum raised her in a glass cage."
Leonardo's eyes flickered upward, a faint smirk curving his lips.
"Perfect. Glass breaks easily."
Alex's jaw flexed. He was hesitating, the weight of his words practically visible on his tongue.
"Leo…" he began, his voice quieter this time, "is this really okay? Dragging her into it? She's got nothing to do with what happened. It was Ben Smith's fault, not hers."
Leonardo said nothing for a moment. He leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath him as he considered his brother-the one person whose conscience still tried to survive in their world.
His voice came low, deliberate. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know she's innocent?"
Then his tone hardened. "But innocence doesn't erase blood, Alex. He killed our father. He left us to rot while he changed his name and built his heaven. Now I'll turn his heaven into hell."
Alex looked away, his throat tight. There were no words that could reach Leonardo when his anger took root; it was colder than fire, sharper than glass. Still, Alex's silence was heavy, almost pleading.
Leonardo rose from his seat, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. "We need to find out her routines," he said. "Where she goes, who she meets, what she loves. If she's protected—let's find the cracks. Everyone has one."
Alex let out a quiet breath and nodded, not meaning it.
"And once we find it?"
Leonardo's eyes darkened, and a storm seemed to gather behind them.
"Then the game begins.
-
Across the city…
Morning sunlight bathed the Moren residence in a gentle glow. It was a quiet home — modern, but softened by touches of warmth. Pale walls, open balconies, trailing vines curling along white pillars. Every corner carried an air of care and calm.
Isabella Moren sat near the veranda with her sketchbook balanced on her lap. Her hand moved with gentle grace, a pencil gliding across paper as it took shape-the figure of a temple dancer-under her touch. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly in concentration, and her stray chestnut lock fell across her face.
Her hair, flowing free, was long, soft waves tumbling down across her shoulder like melted bronze. The tanned tint of her skin had a natural warmth to it, and her eyes, deep and honey-brown, showed serenity and hidden melancholy.
The sitar lay on the nearby table, surrounded by a few brushes and scattered sheets of half-finished drawings. She liked it that way — the chaos of her art, the calm of her mind.
Behind her, the soft sound of footsteps echoed.
"Still drawing, bella?"
She turned, with a gentle smile. Her father, Belrum Moren, stood by the door, his face lined with affection and a trace of worry that never quite deserted him.
"I lose track of time when I draw," she said. He chuckled and walked closer. "You lose track of everything. Even breakfast." She laughed softly, placing her pencil down. "I'll eat, I promise. Don't look at me like that." He looked at her face, then gently brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "You remind me of your mother every day. Same eyes… same stubborn heart." Isabella's gaze softened. "You miss her."
"Every breath," he said softly. They stood there in silence for a moment, sunlight framing them in gold. To any outsider, it was a perfect picture-a father and daughter bound by love. But beneath the warmth, Belrum carried a fear he couldn't voice.
He built walls around his daughter's life, hidden their names, erased their past. Yet deep in his heart, he knew that ghosts could not be kept away by walls.
And far from his tranquil home, in the shadows of the city, Leonardo Romano had already begun to pull the first thread that would unravel everything.