Zurich's snow fell steadily as Leo and Amara boarded the early train south, the vault files securely hidden inside Leo's leather bag. Silence sat heavy between them, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the tracks and the occasional murmur of strangers in other compartments.
Amara watched Leo's reflection in the window—his profile rigid, his thoughts unreadable. She wanted to reach out, but something held her back. Maybe it was the way his jaw clenched whenever he thought of Claudia. Or maybe it was the name at the top of that list—Matteo Moretti. His father.
She finally spoke. "We have everything. Why does it feel like we've lost something?"
Leo didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low.
"Because no matter what we uncover, it won't change the past."
They arrived back in Verona before midnight.
The safehouse was quiet. Matteo had returned ahead of them, analyzing the files and encrypting backups across secure servers. He met them at the door, eyes bloodshot from staring at screens too long.
"There's more than we thought," he said without preamble. "Mara wasn't just moving money—she was recruiting. Reviving old alliances from your father's syndicate. Trafficking weapons. Blackmailing judges. It's bigger than just her."
Leo rubbed his eyes. "It always was."
Amara dropped her coat and took the USB drives from her bag. "We leak it. Everything."
Matteo hesitated. "You sure?"
"Yes," Leo said. "We end it."
They coordinated the release like a military operation.
Matteo programmed a timer: the files would go public in seventy-two hours, uploaded to three major news agencies, plus an anonymous leak to the International Criminal Court. Enough to expose the entire network. Enough to make them all targets.
Leo placed the final encrypted file on the server and pressed Enter.
"It's done," he said.
Amara stared at the screen. "Then so are we."
But freedom had its price.
Within hours, word spread that the Moretti vaults had been compromised. Leo's name, long dormant in the underworld, lit up old circles like fire in dry grass. Former enemies stirred. Old debts resurfaced. And Mara had vanished.
"She won't run forever," Matteo said. "Not with what's coming."
"She doesn't need to run," Leo murmured. "She'll come for us."
Two nights later, Claudia appeared at the safehouse.
Her face was pale, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She had been followed.
"I shook them at the bridge," she said breathlessly. "But they'll find me again."
Leo took her coat, his expression tight with worry. "You shouldn't have come back."
"I had no choice. You missed something."
She pulled a photograph from her bag—aged, corners torn. It showed four people: Matteo Moretti, Claudia, Mara…and a fourth man.
Leo stared at the face.
Amara frowned. "Who is he?"
Claudia hesitated. "That's Giovanni Rinaldi. He was your father's partner. And Mara's real boss."
Leo's stomach twisted. "He died. Years ago."
"No," Claudia whispered. "That was staged too."
Giovanni Rinaldi.
The name alone made Leo's blood run cold.
His father had once called him "the architect." Rinaldi stayed in the shadows, never appearing in photographs or official records. But he designed the syndicate's infrastructure—offshore accounts, blackmail networks, and hidden safehouses across Europe.
"He was supposed to be a myth," Leo said.
"He isn't," Claudia replied. "And he's the one Mara's working for. She's rebuilding his empire."
Amara stared at them both. "Then everything we've done so far…it's just scratched the surface."
Leo nodded grimly. "The real war hasn't started yet."
They left Verona the next morning.
Too dangerous now. The safehouse was burned. Their names—especially Leo's—were beginning to resurface in headlines across the continent. "Heir to Moretti Empire Resurfaces in Criminal Leak" one read. Another: "Whistleblower or Warlord?"
Public sympathy was mixed. The truth, too tangled for easy headlines.
In Milan, they rented a flat under Matteo's false ID. Claudia stayed behind, hidden by contacts who owed her favors. It was safer that way.
As Leo packed his bag in silence, Amara approached him from behind.
"Is there anything left for us after this?" she asked.
He turned to her, eyes shadowed but steady.
"If we survive," he said. "There has to be."
Later that night, Amara found him at the window again, cigarette burning low between his fingers, face lit by the streetlamp below.
"I never wanted this," he said.
"I know."
"I was a boy in love with music. I didn't ask for a legacy of blood."
She stepped beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You didn't ask for me, either. But I'm here."
He looked down at her. "And you're the only thing that feels real."
In a basement apartment in Budapest, Mara stood before a new man.
Tall, gray-haired, his presence like a blade—cold, precise, deadly.
Giovanni Rinaldi.
She handed him a file. "They've moved. But not far."
He looked at her, voice gravel-soft. "And the girl?"
"She's with him. She's not just a lover. She's the anchor."
Rinaldi smiled. "Then we cut the anchor."