The next morning, Clara found the business card again, lying on her desk like a small, white trap.
Elena Serra – Investigative Journalist, La Nuova Sardegna.
The surname burned like a brand. She turned it over in her fingers again and again, searching for a message that wasn't there. Was it coincidence? Or had Enzo sent her — a reminder that they were being watched, a test of loyalty disguised as curiosity?
Giulia came in, half-dressed, her hair still damp from the shower. "You're staring at that thing like it's going to confess."
"It's Enzo's last name," Clara said.
Giulia frowned. "Could be a coincidence."
Clara shook her head. "There are no coincidences in his world."
Giulia sighed, rubbing her temples. "If she's really a journalist, the last thing we need is her sniffing around. Did you tell her anything?"
"Just that we're a club," Clara said. Then, after a pause: "She said she was writing about nightlife."
Giulia gave a humorless laugh. "If she's a Serra, she's writing about control. Not nightlife."
They spent the morning pretending to work — invoices, emails, deliveries — but the rhythm was off. The staff felt it too; laughter came shorter, the music playing from the speakers seemed hollow.
By evening, Clara couldn't stay still. "I'm going to find her," she said suddenly.
Giulia's head snapped up. "Are you insane?"
"If she's Enzo's daughter, I need to know why she came here. If she's not, I need to know that too."
Giulia stood, blocking the door. "Clara, you don't walk toward danger in this world. You wait for it to forget you."
Clara's jaw set. "It never forgets me."
She found Elena at a café near the Bastione di Saint Remy, seated beneath a white umbrella with her laptop open and an espresso untouched.
"You came," Elena said, without looking up.
"You left me a card," Clara replied.
Elena closed the laptop and gestured to the seat opposite. "Sit. You look like you haven't slept."
Clara sat. Her heart was a drum in her throat.
"Are you related to Enzo Serra?" she asked.
Elena smiled faintly. "He's my uncle. Unfortunately."
Clara swallowed hard. "And you came to my club because…?"
"Because I'm writing about him." Elena's voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "About how he hides his money. About the women he uses as fronts. About how some of them don't even know until it's too late."
Clara stared, words failing her.
Elena leaned closer. "I've seen the permits. The transfers. The offshore accounts. I know Luce Nera is one of his laundromats. But you — you're not like the others. You actually care about that place. Why?"
Clara's voice was barely a whisper. "Because it's the only thing I've ever built that wasn't a lie."
Elena studied her face for a long time, then nodded. "Then maybe you don't deserve to go down with him."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I can protect you — if you help me."
Back at the club, Giulia paced the office until Clara returned after sunset.
"Where the hell were you?" she demanded.
"I met her," Clara said simply. "Elena Serra. She's Enzo's niece. She's a journalist — and she's investigating him."
Giulia froze. "And you believed her?"
"I didn't believe or disbelieve. I listened."
Giulia slammed her hand on the desk. "Clara, do you have any idea what happens if Enzo finds out you spoke to her? We're not just dead — everyone in this club is."
Clara looked away, her voice trembling but firm. "Maybe someone needs to stop him."
Giulia stared at her, incredulous. "Stop him? You're talking about burning down the house we live in."
"Maybe it's already burning," Clara whispered.
Giulia turned away, muttering something in Sardinian too soft to catch.
When she faced Clara again, her eyes were wet with fury. "I love you. But if you keep walking this line, I can't follow."
That night, the crowd returned. Luce Nera pulsed with life, but for Clara it felt like standing inside a storm she'd summoned.
Halfway through the evening, she saw Luca Verri again — Enzo's messenger — leaning on the bar, eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw her, he beckoned her over.
"Enzo's numbers aren't fixed yet," he said. "He's losing patience."
Clara kept her tone even. "Tell him he'll have what he wants."
Luca smirked. "He always does." Then he added, quieter: "Be careful who you talk to. Cagliari's a small island. Words travel faster than wind."
He left before she could answer.
From the far end of the room, Giulia watched it all — Clara talking to the man who could kill them both, the flash of warning in his smile, the way Clara's hand trembled slightly when he turned away.
Giulia felt her chest tighten with a fear she hadn't felt in years — the fear of losing not just her life, but her person.
Later, after closing, the two women stood on the empty dance floor, lights dimmed to a dull red glow.
"I'll fix the books," Giulia said finally. "I'll call Enzo's accountant, make the transfers. Just… stop meeting with that woman."
Clara looked at her, eyes tired but burning. "I can't. She's our only way out."
Giulia's voice broke. "There is no way out. There never was."
The silence that followed was long enough for the hum of the sound system to become the only heartbeat in the room.
Clara turned off the lights, leaving them in darkness.
"Then I'll make one," she said.