Valeria didn't sleep.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, the ticking of Nico's watch echoing through her chest like a time bomb. Its presence wasn't just haunting—it was impossible. That watch had vanished the same day he did.
And now, ten years later, it had returned to her bedroom, warm from someone's wrist.
But whose?
The apartment hadn't been broken into. No signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. Nothing else moved. Just the watch—deliberately placed. A message.
Valeria reached for her phone and hovered her finger over Detective Reyes' contact.
The last time they'd spoken, Reyes made it clear she hadn't given up on the Monroe case—even after being pulled from it.
"If anything ever resurfaces," she had warned, "call me first. Not the department. Me."
Valeria hesitated. Could she trust her?
No.
She couldn't trust anyone now.
---
The next morning, Valeria wrapped the watch in tissue paper and slipped it into her coat pocket. She needed answers, and she wasn't going to get them sitting in her apartment, drowning in ghosts.
She headed downtown—toward the only person who might know why a ten-year-old cold case was being unearthed now.
The DeLuca Foundation towered above the city like a silent sentinel. Sleek glass, impenetrable walls, and a reputation that made CEOs flinch. She bypassed the reception desk and headed straight to the elevator, swiping the guest badge Rafe had mysteriously sent to her phone earlier that morning.
Meet me. 10 AM. Floor 39. - R
No greeting. No explanation. Just those words. Arrogant, cryptic… and oddly compelling.
The elevator doors opened into a minimalist office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the harbor so perfect it felt unreal. Valeria barely had time to take it in before he appeared.
Rafe DeLuca.
Wearing a slate-gray suit, collar open, no tie. Calm, composed, unreadable.
"You came," he said, voice smooth as obsidian.
"Did I have a choice?" Valeria replied coldly.
He gestured toward the sleek leather chair across from his desk. "You always have a choice."
"I don't feel like it."
"I imagine not," he said, watching her. "Especially with that envelope you found."
She narrowed her eyes. "How do you know about that?"
"I sent it."
Silence.
"You planted it inside a painting?" she asked, stunned. "Why?"
"Because you were the only person who would open it and recognize what it meant. And because I couldn't trust anyone else."
She stood up. "You don't get to play games with my dead mother."
"She's not dead," he said calmly.
The world tilted.
"What?"
"She was alive as of two years ago," he continued. "Disappeared again shortly after a meeting with my father. I've been looking for her ever since."
Valeria gripped the edge of his desk to steady herself.
"You expect me to believe this?"
"I expect you to decide what you believe," Rafe said. "But I can prove it."
He tapped a key on his laptop. A photo appeared on the screen. It was Cassandra Monroe—older now, wearing dark sunglasses, stepping into a car with a man Valeria didn't recognize.
Date-stamped: March 7th, 2023.
The color drained from her face.
"Why didn't you go to the police?"
"Because she asked me not to."
"Why? What the hell was she involved in?"
Rafe stared at her for a long moment, then said quietly, "Things that get people killed."
---
Later that day, Valeria sat at a bench near the marina, the wind tangling her hair. Her head was spinning.
Her mother was alive.
Nico's watch had reappeared.
And Rafe DeLuca knew more about her family than she did.
She pulled out her phone, opened the photo of her mother again—and paused.
Something in the corner of the image caught her eye.
A man's reflection in the car window.
It was faint, distorted.
But unmistakable.
Nico.
Valeria's stomach dropped.
How was that possible?
He'd vanished years ago. Presumed dead after the ferry explosion. The investigation had ruled it an accident. But if he'd been there—near her mother…
Had he been working with her?
Or hunting her?
---
That night, she returned to her studio to find the lights already on.
Panic flared. She hadn't been there since yesterday—and she always turned everything off.
She reached for the small knife she kept in her boot and stepped inside.
The room was empty.
Except for the new painting propped on the easel.
It hadn't been there before.
Large. Wrapped in silk.
There was no note this time.
She peeled back the cloth—and gasped.
It was a portrait of her.
Painted in the same style as the old masters. Delicate. Lifelike. Intimate.
But her eyes… were weeping blood.
Painted in red. Crimson tears running down her cheeks.
She staggered back.
Something sharp sliced her finger. She looked down—glass.
A shard from a broken frame on the floor.
Inside it: another note, this one scrawled in familiar handwriting.
"Some truths should stay buried. But you were always curious, Vale."
–N
---
Valeria looked up, hands trembling—and saw movement outside her window.
A figure.
Watching.
Smiling.
Then vanishing into the fog.