The morning light over Cagliari was almost too clean — the kind of brightness that made every shadow sharper. The sea below the cliffs of Monte Urpinu shimmered with silver streaks as Clara and Giulia made their way toward Enzo Serra's villa. The road climbed through groves of pine and olive, each turn feeling tighter, more deliberate.
Clara drove. Giulia sat beside her, silent, her sunglasses hiding everything her face refused to say. The radio was off. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the faint rustle of the wind against the car.
When they reached the gate, a guard waved them through without a word. The villa stood white and immaculate against the hillside, too perfect to be anything but menacing.
Inside, Enzo Serra waited at a table overlooking the water. He wore linen the color of ash and smiled like a man who had never once had to raise his voice.
"Clara. Giulia." He gestured for them to sit. "You've built something beautiful."
Clara, wary, managed a polite nod. "Thank you. Business is strong."
"Yes," Enzo said, pouring himself a glass of sparkling water. "Almost too strong. It makes people curious. When a front begins to look more real than the money behind it, people start to wonder whose side it's on."
Giulia tensed. "We're on your side, Enzo. Always."
He looked between them, amused. "Of course. But the numbers — they're lower than last quarter. You've been keeping more money in the legitimate books. Less through the channels we agreed."
Clara's throat tightened. She hadn't meant to — not really. She'd just reinvested in the club: new sound system, better lighting, bonuses for staff. It had all felt right, necessary, part of the dream.
"I needed to make improvements," she said quietly. "If the club fails, we all lose."
Enzo tilted his head. "You think I care about a nightclub's Yelp reviews?"
Giulia's hand found Clara's knee under the table, warning her.
Enzo's voice softened, which somehow made it worse. "I like you, Clara. You bring light to dark places. But don't confuse that light for safety. You built a stage — not a sanctuary."
He stood, signaling the meeting was over. "Fix the numbers by next week. And keep the music loud. It helps people forget what's real."
They drove back in silence. Only when they reached the city did Giulia finally speak.
"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped. "You can't just explain things to Enzo Serra like he's an investor. He's not interested in your business plan."
Clara gripped the wheel. "He treats us like we're disposable. Like I'm disposable. I won't let that be true."
"It is true!" Giulia's voice cracked, raw and frightened. "We took their money. We opened their club. That's the deal. You start thinking it's more than that, and you'll get us killed."
Clara didn't answer.
They pulled into the alley behind Luce Nera just as the afternoon heat began to settle in. A delivery truck was unloading crates of liquor. Clara stepped out, squinting into the sunlight, and saw one of the new bartenders — a wiry kid named Mateo — stacking boxes near the door.
He grinned when he saw her. "Clara! The sound guys fixed the amp. We're ready for the weekend."
His enthusiasm tugged something loose inside her — a reminder that for most of the staff, this was just a job, a place of music and late nights, not a shell hiding blood money.
"Good," she said, forcing a smile. "Tell the others I'll be in soon."
Giulia followed her inside but stopped at the entrance to the office. "You're not thinking straight," she said softly. "I love you, Clara, but you need to stop trying to make this place honest."
Clara turned, eyes blazing. "What's wrong with wanting something real? Don't you ever get tired of pretending?"
Giulia hesitated — long enough for the silence to feel like confession. "I stopped hoping for real a long time ago."
That night, the club pulsed again. The crowd was bigger than ever — students, tourists, locals — all drawn by the promise of forgetting. Clara moved through the throng, letting the bass thud through her ribs, trying to convince herself this was enough.
Then, through the haze of light, she saw a face she didn't recognize: a woman at the far end of the bar, tall, dark hair, eyes sharp as broken glass. She wasn't dancing. She was watching.
Clara approached, cautious. "Can I get you something?"
The woman smiled faintly. "I'll take whatever you recommend." Her Italian carried the faint lilt of the north. "You're Clara, right? The owner?"
Clara nodded.
"I'm Elena," the woman said. "Journalist. I'm doing a feature on Cagliari nightlife. Heard this place is… special."
Clara's pulse skipped. "We're just a club."
Elena tilted her head. "Are you?"
For a moment, the music seemed to fade, replaced by the rush of Clara's heartbeat.
Giulia appeared at her side, sensing the tension instantly. "Everything okay here?"
Elena smiled again — this time at both of them. "Perfectly. Enjoy your night." She left her drink untouched and disappeared into the crowd.
Giulia watched her go. "You know her?"
"No," Clara said. But her voice trembled.
Because the truth was — the woman's business card, left under the half-empty glass, bore the name Elena Serra.
Serra.
As in Enzo Serra.