“You burn with me!” Teodoro’s frantic voice clawed through the speaker. Marcella ended the call with a clinical tap. The Altamira Cliffs. A perfect place for a final act. Zeno tracked her across the room without blinking. “He is cornered,” he stated, setting down his crystal tumbler. “Men like that make sloppy choices, but they also follow through on threats when cornered.” “That notebook is essential. And this time, it is not merely for justice. It guarantees my survival.” Marcella’s tone remained flat, devoid of the panic she knew Teodoro was currently drowning in. She glanced at the pearl necklace, now a broken string of memories on Zeno’s polished glass table. Livia’s bug had been whispering her secrets to the mastermind for weeks. Now, Livia had accelerated her timeline, twisting the knife. “He needs to believe I am alone. You can’t be seen, Zeno.” Zeno stepped closer, his presence a wall of controlled power. “You want me to let you walk into a trap?” His hand, still marked with the faint impression of her bandaged palm from moments before, reached out as if to touch her, then halted. “He’s unstable, Marcella. And you have no idea who else Livia might have waiting for him out there.” “Precisely,” Marcella replied, her eyes, the colour of glacier ice, meeting his without a flicker. “That is why I will be there first. And alone.” She pivoted, her silk gown rustling with a deliberate elegance that defied the gravity of the situation. “Prep a discreet vehicle. One of your unmarked sedans. And a bottle of my finest chilled Cuvée de Prestige. This calls for a proper send-off.” The drive to the cliffs was a winding ascent, the air growing colder, saltier. The ocean roared below, a hungry, rhythmic sound that seemed to mock the fragile lives playing out above its depths. Marcella’s sedan, sleek and black, blended seamlessly into the encroaching twilight. She located the turnoff past the lighthouse, a narrow, unmarked track leading to the abandoned limestone quarry. The gravel crunched under her tires as she navigated the treacherous path, the headlights cutting through the gloom to reveal a solitary vehicle: Teodoro’s silver sportscar, parked precariously close to the cliff’s edge. She cut her engine, plunging the immediate area into near-total darkness, save for the distant glint of the lighthouse beacon. The wind whipped at her hair as she exited the car, clutching the slender bottle of Cuvée de Prestige like a weapon. The air hummed with an unnatural stillness. No sound of Teodoro’s blubbering, no movement. A bad sign. Then she saw him. A crumpled heap beside his car, half-hidden by a tumble of jagged rocks. Teodoro. He wasn’t merely distressed; he was *bleeding*. A dark, viscous stain bloomed across the front of his designer shirt, spreading outward from his abdomen. His pupils were fixed on the gray sky, red froth bubbling at the corner of his lips. Marcella approached, her perfectly aligned spine betraying no hint of shock. “Teodoro,” she said, her voice unnervingly calm above the wind. “You’re making a mess.” He twitched, a ragged breath rattling in his chest. “Marcella… you came…” His fingers, smeared red, scraped weakly against his lapel. “The black book… she… she stabbed me…” “Ovidia,” Marcella deduced, a flicker of satisfaction, quickly suppressed, passing through her. The gaslighting about tax fraud had worked better than anticipated. Ovidia, betrayed and financially ruined, had snapped. Poetic justice, indeed. “Where is she now?” Teodoro gave a weak, dismissive wave. “Ran… probably… went mad… said I framed her…” He coughed, a spray of blood misting the air. “The book… inside the lining… you swore… safety…” He wheezed through bloody teeth. “You swore you’d protect me…” “First, the records.” Marcella crouched, careful not to let the hem of her silk coat touch the dirt. The fabric of his bespoke jacket felt strangely cold beneath her gloved fingertips. She began to rummage, the metallic tang of his blood filling her nostrils. Her fingers brushed against a thick, leather-bound notebook tucked into an inner pocket. *Bingo.* As she pulled it free, the leather, once pristine, was now stained with Teodoro’s lifeblood. The paper trail that would condemn Livia was now slick with the cost of Teodoro’s greed. Just as her fingers closed around it, the crunch of gravel echoed, not from her car, but from the track behind Teodoro’s. Two figures emerged from the gloom, large, heavily built men in dark clothing. Livia’s hired muscle. They hadn't come for Teodoro, not really. They’d come to clean up. And to frame her. “Well, well,” one of them grunted, his voice thick with a crude Altamiran accent. “Look what we have here. The Vespasi heiress, caught red-handed. And with a fresh corpse, no less.” The second thug, even larger, stepped towards Teodoro’s car. “Boss said to make it look like an accident. Car over the edge. Looks like the little bird was planning to do it for us.” Marcella rose smoothly, the blood-stained ledger clutched tight. Her expression was utterly unreadable. Two against one, on a crumbling cliff edge. Not ideal. She assessed the distance to her own car, then to the cliff. Teodoro, still groaning weakly, was directly in their path. “Such predictable theatrics,” Marcella observed, her voice carrying an almost bored inflection. “A car accident? Surely Livia could have concocted something more creative.” The first thug lunged, snatching toward the pocketbook. Marcella sidestepped with an almost imperceptible shift of weight, her perfect posture barely disturbed. As he stumbled past, she twisted, the heavy bottle of Cuvée de Prestige held aloft. With a precise, flicking motion, she popped the cork. The champagne exploded in a fizzy geyser, catching the thug squarely in the face. He shrieked, hands flying to his eyes, momentarily blinded by the stinging effervescence. “My apologies,” Marcella deadpanned. “It’s a rather spirited vintage.” The second thug, distracted by his partner’s yelps, momentarily paused his advance on Teodoro’s car. Marcella seized the opportunity, sprinting towards the edge, calculating her next move. There was no escape on foot. The cliff dropped hundreds of feet to the crashing waves. Suddenly, a new sound ripped through the night: the unmistakable thrum of rotor blades. A sleek, black helicopter, its landing lights cutting through the darkness, appeared over the precipice, descending with a powerful grace. Zeno. He had followed her, just as she knew he would. The helicopter hovered, its downdraft whipping Marcella’s hair and gown, sending dust and small stones skittering across the cliff face. A rope ladder unfurled, swaying wildly in the wind. The thug Marcella had blinded was still rubbing his eyes, but the other, regaining his composure, charged, a feral roar tearing from his throat. Marcella didn't hesitate. She launched herself towards the ladder, her fingers closing around the cold metal of the landing skid. Just as her feet left the ground, a viselike grip clamped around her ankle, dragging her back down, inexorably, towards the deadly precipice.

Blood on the Cliffs