The disposable phone felt like ice in Lina’s grip, its green backlight mocking her. ‘I know who you are, Corvo.’ The words echoed in the sudden quiet of the street, louder than the distant rumble of the tram. Every nerve in her body hummed with a frantic energy. She spun, scanning the darkened windows of the shops, the anonymous passersby, the looming shadows. Nothing. No one. Just the indifferent city closing in around her.
She broke into a jog, then a full sprint, the chill air burning her lungs. Falco, ordinarily a silent, observant weight in her satchel, whined softly, a low rumble of discomfort. Lina ignored the stitch in her side, her mind racing, a tangled knot of fear and questions. How? Who? Was it Caterina? Had the investigation already yielded results? Or was it someone else, some unseen player in the intricate game she had so foolishly, so desperately, begun?
Her apartment, a cramped space above a quiet *panetteria* in the old quarter, offered little comfort. The familiar scent of yeast and warm bread typically soothed her, but tonight it felt oppressive. She slammed the door shut, locking it, then throwing the deadbolt, the chain. Falco leapt from her satchel the moment it hit the floor, his lithe body a blur as he darted under the worn velvet armchair. He watched her from the shadows, his obsidian eyes unblinking, pools of silent understanding.
Lina sank onto the sofa, the phone still clutched in her hand. The text message seemed to burn into her palm. “They know, Falco,” she murmured, her voice a thin, reedy sound she barely recognized as her own. She curled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them, staring at the fennec fox. “Someone knows. It’s too soon. I haven’t even touched the Star of Arlano yet. I haven’t even begun to dig the grave for the Rinaldis.” Her voice cracked on the last word, the ruthless facade she’d built crumbling beneath sudden panic.
Falco emerged from under the armchair, trotting across the threadbare rug. He nudged her hand with his wet nose, then rubbed his soft fur against her arm, a surprisingly grounding pressure. Lina ran a trembling hand over his head, feeling the delicate bones beneath the fur. “What do I do, little one? If they expose me now, it’s over. Worse than before. Prison. Shame. Caterina wins. She’ll dance on my grave.” The thought twisted her stomach into knots.
The fennec fox settled on her lap, his tail swishing gently. His dark eyes, almost always so sharp and alert, seemed to soften, reflecting the dim glow of the single lamp. It was absurd, talking to a fox, pouring out her deepest fears to a creature that couldn’t possibly comprehend. And yet, Falco was the only confidant she had, the only one who had witnessed her humiliation, her slow, agonizing crawl back from ruin. He listened without judgment, without the pity or scorn that had been her constant companions for years.
A sharp knock rattled the door, making Lina flinch, her heart leaping into her throat. Falco’s ears swiveled, his body tensing. Another knock, firmer this time. Lina froze, her mind immediately jumping to the worst-case scenario. Had they found her already? Was this the end?
“Lina? It’s Dante. Are you alright? You didn’t answer my calls.”
Dante. His voice, deep and resonant, cut through her terror, replacing it with a different kind of dread. He couldn’t be here. Not now. Not when she was a raw nerve of exposed fear. She scrambled off the sofa, Falco dropping silently to the floor. She smoothed down her rumpled clothes, ran a hand through her hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The threatening text still burned in her mind, a stark reminder of her precarious position.
She hesitated for a beat, then unlatched the locks, opening the door a crack. Dante stood framed in the dim hallway light, a large paper bag in one hand, a small bouquet of white *fior di maggio* in the other. His impeccably tailored suit jacket was discarded, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. A concerned frown creased his brow, and his dark eyes swept over her face.
“I was worried,” he said, his gaze lingering. “You practically vanished after the auction, and then you stopped responding to the encrypted line. Everything alright?” He pushed the flowers into her hand, their delicate fragrance momentarily cutting through the lingering fear. “I brought *pasta alla norma* from that little place on Via Carbone. And some *sfogliatella*.”
Lina forced a tight smile. “Dante. You didn’t have to.” Her voice was still a little shaky. She stepped aside, letting him in. His presence seemed to fill the small apartment, a vibrant, almost overwhelming energy. Falco, uncharacteristically, didn’t retreat, instead watching Dante with a keen, assessing gaze from behind the sofa.
He placed the food on her small coffee table, his eyes scanning the room. The space was sparse, functional, betraying little of Lina’s true nature. But then his gaze snagged on something. On the worn wooden surface of the coffee table, next to a stack of gemology textbooks, lay a small, specialized polishing cloth and a fine-tipped diamond loupe. The breath left Lina's lungs. She had forgotten to put them away. Her tools. Her secret.
Dante’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting. He picked up the loupe, his fingers tracing the cool metal. “You have an interest in gemstones, Lina?” His voice was even, but a sharp edge, an unexpected intensity, cut through the casual question. His gaze, suddenly piercing, met hers, and for a terrifying moment, Lina felt completely exposed, stripped bare. Tension coiled between them, sharp and immediate. She swallowed, her throat dry.
“A… casual interest,” she managed, barely audible. “A hobby. I find them… beautiful.” She reached for the loupe, gently taking it from his hand, her fingers brushing against his, prickling the skin on her forearm.
Dante watched her, a slow, appraising look in his eyes. He didn’t press the point, but Lina knew he hadn’t dismissed it. The moment lingered, thick with unvoiced questions. He moved, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, gesturing to the food. “Eat. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
As they ate in a tense quiet, Lina tried to formulate a plan for the text message, for the Rinaldis, for the precarious identity of ‘The Faceless.’ She needed more time. So much more time. Dante, oblivious to her inner turmoil, picked at his *sfogliatella*, then leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious.
“There’s something else,” he began, his voice dropping to a low, grave tone. “I’ve been making inquiries about the original ‘Faceless.’ The mining magnate. His real name is Alistair Vane. He’s been out of circulation for years, supposedly retired to some private island, but… I’ve heard rumors.”
Lina’s fork clattered against her plate. She looked at him, a terrible premonition coiling in her gut. “Rumors?”
Dante met her gaze, his expression grim. “He’s coming back to Bressia. To reclaim his name, his assets, his influence. He’s a ruthless man, Lina. They say he built his empire by crushing anyone in his path. And he’s not known for tolerating pretenders.”
The second jolt hit Lina like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. The real 'Faceless'. Returning. This was it. The time limit she had dismissed as a distant threat was now a snarling beast at her heels. Her carefully constructed revenge, her fragile identity, all of it was about to shatter.
“When?” she whispered, the single word a desperate plea.
Dante’s eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, held a flicker of something akin to worry. He pushed his plate aside, leaning closer, his voice a low rumble. “He’ll be here in two months. We need to be ready.”