The two days leading up to my departure were a masterclass in controlled chaos and suffocating tension. The penthouse, once a silent fortress, was now a buzzing hive of quiet, intense activity. Nyx worked her digital magic, creating a new, untraceable identity for me: Isabelle Renaud, a postgraduate art history student researching post-war financial movements. She crafted a digital breadcrumb trail stretching back two years—university records, social media profiles, travel itineraries—a life so meticulously fabricated it felt almost real.
Dante was the real storm. He was a thundercloud of restless energy, overseeing every detail of the operation with an obsessive focus that bordered on paranoia. He personally briefed the six-person security detail Leo had assembled, grilling them on their response times and backup plans. He had me memorize maps of Brussels, safe house locations, and a dozen different distress signals, both verbal and physical.
The night before I was to leave, he came to my room. The commander was gone, replaced by the man who had held my hand in the dark. He carried a small, velvet box.
"This is for you," he said, his voice a low, strained murmur. He opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was a delicate platinum necklace with a single, exquisitely cut sapphire that matched the exact color of my eyes. It was beautiful, but I knew it wasn't just jewelry.
"The stone is a tracking device," he explained, his fingers brushing mine as he lifted it from the box. "The clasp is a panic button. A single, long press. The moment you activate it, my men will converge on your location in under ninety seconds. They have the authorization to use any means necessary to extract you."
He stepped behind me, his hands surprisingly gentle as he fastened the necklace. His fingers lingered on my skin, a warm, possessive touch that sent a shiver through me. I saw his reflection in the dark glass of the window; his face was a mask of tormented conflict.
"Don't be a hero, Isabella," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "Your objective is to gather information, not to win the war alone. Get what you can, then come home." He paused, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible plea. "Come back to me."
I turned in his arms, my hands resting on his chest. "I will," I promised.
The flight to Brussels on a private Moretti jet was a blur. I was Isabelle Renaud now, my mind focused, my purpose clear. Leo traveled with me, a silent, reassuring presence, before melting into the city's shadows upon our arrival to command the operation from the ground.
The meeting was set for a quiet, historic café in the Sablon district, a place known for its antique booksellers and chocolatiers. It was the ideal location—public enough to be safe, quiet enough for a private conversation. I arrived ten minutes early, choosing a small table in the back with a clear view of the entrance. The earpiece in my ear was a tiny, invisible link to my guardian angels.
"The team is in position," Leo's voice murmured, a ghost in my ear. "Two across the street. One at the counter. We have you covered."
Colette Dubois arrived right on time. She was not what I had expected. She was small and wiry, with short, dark hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to take in the entire room in a single glance. She wore no makeup, and her clothes were practical, almost severe. She moved with the wary energy of a cornered animal, not the confident swagger of a dedicated journalist. She was a woman who had spent her whole life looking over her shoulder.
She slid into the chair opposite me, her gaze instantly hostile. "You have five minutes to explain why I shouldn't walk out of here and report Dante Moretti for harassment."
I didn't flinch. I had anticipated this. I pushed a plain manila envelope across the table. "Before you do, you should look at this."
She eyed the envelope suspiciously before pulling out the single document inside: a copy of the munitions manifest, signed by her father.
Her face went pale, but her eyes hardened. "What is this? Some kind of blackmail?"
"No," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "It's the reason my father was murdered. I believe it's the reason yours was, too."
I leaned forward, dropping all pretense. "My name is Isabella Rossi. Nineteen years ago, the man I called my father, Antonio Moretti, signed this document. Two months later, he was killed. A year after that, your father, Jacques Dubois, died in a boating accident. I don't believe in coincidences, and as an investigative journalist, neither do you."
She stared at me, her sharp mind clearly processing the information, connecting the dots. The hostility in her eyes was slowly being replaced by a cautious curiosity. This was the scent of the one story she had never been able to uncover: her own.
"Dante Moretti is a predator," she stated, testing me. "He is everything my father taught me to fight against."
"And the people who killed our fathers are monsters," I countered. "Right now, Moretti's resources are the only weapons I have to fight them. I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust what connects us: our fathers were caught in the same web, and we are the only ones left to untangle it."
She was silent for a long time, her gaze fixed on her father's signature. The name of the man who had been stolen from her. Finally, she looked up at me, a new, grim resolve in her eyes.
"You're right," she said, her voice a low, steady hum of controlled anger. "I don't believe in coincidences."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "My father knew they would come for him after Moretti was killed. He knew he was a loose end. He wasn't a fool."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, old, brass key, placing it on the table between us. It was ornate, clearly antique.
"Two days before he died, he gave me this," she said, her eyes boring into mine. "He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to find the 'Incorruptible Man' at the bank. He said that man would know what to do with the key. He said the truth was inside the serpent's heart."