Rain streaked down the bulletproof windows of Vitale Tower like the sky was trying to wash something clean.
Too bad it never could.
Zayne stood in his penthouse office, dressed in black, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching the city that bent to his name. From up here, everything looked smaller. The streets. The power. The people he controlled.
But the ghosts?
They looked bigger than ever.
He hadn't slept. Again. His body functioned off rage and precision. No rest. No peace.
His father's blood still lived in his head.
---
He sat behind his desk as dawn touched the skyline — reviewing files, photographs, reports. Names. Timelines. Lies.
For seventeen years he had collected every scrap of information about the man who killed Giovanni Vitale.
And he still didn't have a name.
Just a face etched into memory:
The scar on the left side of his jaw.
A lion-crest ring.
A stare that felt colder than death.
Zayne had learned two things since he was nine:
1. People forget.
2. But paper doesn't.
He flipped through another folder — old Moretti associates, accountants, dead soldiers. Most of them were either rotting or buried in concrete.
But he didn't care about them.
He only cared about the lion.
---
Underground — Interrogation Room, 10:47 AM
The man strapped to the chair had once been a mid-level enforcer under the Moretti regime. Now, he looked like something forgotten — bruised, silent, and broken in the dim light.
Zayne circled him slowly.
"Talk."
"I told you everything already," the man rasped.
Zayne leaned in, his voice cold and low. "No. You told me what you think will keep you breathing."
"I don't know anything—"
Zayne pulled a chair and sat across from him. Calm. Controlled.
"Seventeen years ago," he began, "there was a man. Scar on his jaw. Gold lion ring. He shot my father in the chest. In front of me."
The prisoner didn't move.
Zayne's voice dipped to a whisper. "If you lie to me again, I will open you up and make you repeat yourself while you bleed out."
A long silence.
Then the man said, "I heard whispers. Back then. People called him Il Leone."
Zayne's eyes narrowed. "The Lion."
"Real ghost. No one saw him twice."
Zayne stood. "Who did he answer to?"
The man swallowed. "I don't know. Swear to God. But some said he went rogue. Broke from Moretti. They had a falling out."
Zayne turned to Luca, standing nearby. "Put him on ice. If he lies again, bury him."
Luca nodded silently.
---
Later — Vitale Tower Archive Room
Zayne's private archive wasn't listed in any blueprint. It was his graveyard of secrets. Shelves full of files, photos, news clippings. Everything he had ever gathered since the moment he stopped being a boy.
He knelt beside one of the lower shelves and opened a file marked with a red tag.
Inside: a sketched composite — drawn by a forensic artist when Zayne was just twelve. The man's face was vague, but the scar and the lion ring were dead accurate.
Zayne stared at it. For a long time.
Then something in the corner caught his eye.
A name.
It had been scribbled faintly on a shipping invoice from 18 years ago. Most of it was blacked out — burned, even — but one part was still legible.
"Da–"
The rest of the name was gone.
Zayne's pulse spiked.
He had seen this file before. Dozens of times. But not in this light. Not in this state of mind.
He stood sharply and grabbed the folder, storming out of the vault.
---
Penthouse — That Night, 11:06 PM
Luca entered quietly. "We had eyes on four old Moretti runners. Two are dead. One's missing. One's in Milan."
"Send a team," Zayne said without hesitation.
"You sure he's worth it?"
"No," Zayne replied. "That's what makes him dangerous."
Luca looked at him for a moment, then said, "You ever think about stopping? Letting it go?"
Zayne looked at him like he was speaking another language.
"I mean it," Luca said. "You've built an empire. You're more feared than Giovanni ever was. You've got control of Rome, Milan, Naples. You've already won."
Zayne stared through the glass again.
"I haven't won," he said. "I've just survived."
Luca stepped closer. "Zayne, we're not boys anymore. You chase this shadow long enough, you'll either lose yourself…"
He paused.
"Or you'll catch it and realize you've got nothing left."
Zayne's jaw flexed. "I don't need a therapist, Luca."
"No. You need a f**king exorcist."
Zayne's hand twitched near the glass of whiskey he hadn't touched.
"Go back to work," he muttered.
Luca didn't push it. He just sighed and left.
---
Midnight — Alone
The penthouse was too quiet. He stared at the city lights for a long time, unable to stop thinking about the half-burned name. Da–
His mind went back — back to the gunshot. The scream. The pool of blood at his feet. The weight of his father's body when it fell forward. The warmth that turned cold too quickly.
He remembered the ring.
The glint of gold. The way the man's hand didn't shake.
He remembered how he looked at him — not like a victim. Like a witness.
And Zayne had lived every day since trying to become the kind of man worth fearing back.
---
2:34 AM — File Room Again
He returned to the file, gloves on, scanning the ashes of the partially destroyed invoice.
Burned on the edge. Why? Why this file?
His fingers brushed over the faint stamp at the bottom.
One word.
"Sicilia."
Sicily.
The paper wasn't just an invoice. It was a shipping manifest.
Zayne's eyes lit up.
He pulled out his tablet, called up his encrypted archive, and started scanning for cross-referenced shipments involving Moretti shell companies.
Ten pages in, one popped up.
Date: April 3rd, 18 years ago.
Port: Palermo.
Receiver: D. —————
Marked Confidential.
No full name. No address.
But one detail chilled him.
Cargo listed as: "Artillery and Fabric — Red Orchid."
That wasn't inventory.
That was code.
And Zayne knew what it meant.
Red Orchid was an execution signal. A calling card used by only one man in the underworld — a killer-for-hire rumored to work for no one.
The only man who ever vanished after one job.
The Lion.
Zayne leaned back, stunned.
It wasn't a name.
It was a location.
A place.
Palermo. Sicily.
His next move had just revealed itself.