The hum of the refrigerator thrummed in the background — the only sound daring to interrupt the silence in Celeste's apartment.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the soft clicks of the keys smooth and steady beneath her touch. Her eyes — red-rimmed from sleepless nights — sparkled with sharp determination as she pored over the documents.
The kitchen table had become a war zone: scattered case files, a cold coffee mug, sticky notes like battlefield flags, and a growing mountain of contradictions.
What started as a simple environmental violation tied to Moretti Construction had unraveled into something far darker. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Contracts buried in thick legalese — all of it looked routine on the surface. But when layered together, they formed a tapestry of something criminal. Something deliberate.
Celeste leaned closer, eyes narrowing as she traced funds routed through dummy corporations to accounts linked to Eastern Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia. The paper trail didn't just reek of corporate fraud anymore. The more she followed it, the more she realized this was about influence.
Territory.
Power.
And someone had been running it for a long time.
Suddenly, her laptop blinked. Everything she'd spent days researching vanished. Just like that. Gone.
Her breath caught in her throat. Someone had wiped it clean.
Why? And how?
But before she could panic, something new appeared — an anonymous file dropped into her secure inbox. No sender ID. Just a link and a file labeled:
"Valdez Case — 7 Years Cold."
Her brows furrowed.
She ran diagnostics. "No trace of malware," her system beeped. Nothing pinged.
Against her better judgment, she clicked.
What she saw punched the breath out of her lungs.
Photos. Transcripts. And most importantly — evidence. Real evidence, linking a cartel out of South Florida — The Herrera Syndicate — to drug trafficking, smuggling, and high-level political bribery. The data was dense, damning, and dangerous.
"Why would someone send me this now?" she murmured.
Then it clicked.
This was a diversion.
Someone knew she was close to something. Instead of brute force, they'd thrown her another monster to chase.
But who was this person?
Friend or foe?
Whoever it was — they knew she was closing in. And they wanted her off track.
She should've ignored it.
But a part of her — the part that had outgrown black-and-white thinking — took the bait.
If the Herrera Syndicate had any link to what was happening in New York, it was worth checking.
So she did.
That same week, she took on a federal defense case. A man accused of laundering money for the Herrera crew. It was clear he was being set up to take the fall.
Celeste defended him. In court, she tore holes through the prosecution's case. It worked. The man walked free.
That's when everything began to unravel.
---
Two days later, her tires were slashed.
She didn't flinch. But then her firm received an anonymous threat.
Still, she ignored it. Shrugged it off.
Then came the car.
---
It was raining hard. The windshield wipers struggled against the downpour as she drove home from a late meeting. The city looked like a smeared oil painting through the glass. She was thinking about Moretti, about the files, about whether she might be defending the wrong people.
That's when she saw the headlights.
Too late.
The unregistered SUV had been tailing her too long, unnoticed until it was already too close.
Too fast.
The SUV slammed into her rear.
Her car fishtailed. Spinning. Her head snapped sideways. Metal crunched. Glass scattered. Tires screamed. Her world spun until finally—
Silence.
The car was totaled. And she wasn't okay.
Just before everything went dark, she saw him.
A silhouette. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A familiar cologne — sandalwood, sharp and clean.
Her pulse stuttered.
Luca.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Then —
Black.
---
Twelve hours later, she woke up in a hospital bed.
Her ribs were taped. An IV in her arm. Her lips dry. The sterile sting of antiseptic hit her nose like a slap, making her stomach twist.
Pain throbbed through her ribs — a dull, steady ache.
She turned her head.
Marcus was there, seated beside her, pale and anxious.
"You're lucky," he said. "Someone called it in. Told the paramedics you were still breathing. Then disappeared before anyone could ask questions."
Her voice was hoarse. "Did they say anything else?"
"Just… a black Maserati. That's all anyone remembers."
She leaned her head back, closed her eyes.
It was him.
She didn't need proof.
---
Days later, after being discharged, her body still ached. But what really burned was instinct. Something was wrong.
She arrived at her apartment and froze.
The door was open.
Inside — chaos.
Files ransacked. Laptop smashed. Drawers overturned. Her safe — empty. Fake IDs, duplicate hard drives, CCTV footage, and every shred of evidence she'd gathered against Moretti.
Gone.
She didn't panic. But the quiet fear that seeped into her bones gripped her hard.
No point in calling the police. Whoever did this knew how to clean up.
She called a discreet cleaning service. Then she sat — silent, frozen — until they arrived.
Later, she remembered.
She hadn't thanked Luca.
She picked up her phone and texted:
"Luca, I know it was you who helped me. Thank you. What do you say about lunch tomorrow? My treat."
Hours later, the reply came.
"I'll send a car. 5 PM."
She turned toward her bedroom — and spotted an envelope on the kitchen counter.
Plain. Cream-colored.
Probably dropped by someone from the cleaning crew.
She opened it.
Inside:
A photo of her and her father, smiling in Central Park. She was maybe six.
Her fingers went cold.
This wasn't intimidation.
This was personal.
A warning.
They weren't just watching her. They knew who mattered to her.
She was in too deep now.
And the people pulling the strings from the shadows — they weren't just dangerous.
They were calculated.
---
Meanwhile, in a sleek skyscraper overlooking the East River, Luca Moretti sat in his glass-walled office. Dim lighting cast sharp shadows across his angular face. The fabric of his tailored suit hugged him like second skin — clean, crisp, and expensive.
He was on a call. A high-stakes meeting.
Four faces stared back at him from his laptop — pixelated and voice-encrypted.
Italian. Colombian. Turkish.
They discussed supply lines. A container bound for Naples. Another rerouted through Panama. And, most importantly, how to extract more money from the casinos.
When the call ended, Luca inhaled sharply, the tension throbbing behind his eyes.
His PA stepped in. "Your father's on the line. He says it's urgent."
Luca exhaled and picked up the phone. "Father."
The voice on the other end was colder than the wind off the Amalfi Coast.
"Luca, why haven't you handled the girl? Or did you think I wouldn't find out?"
Luca's grip tightened. His knuckles whitened around the phone.
"She's being watched. I have it under control."
"Control is an illusion, figlio. You delay, I act."
"Stay out of this," Luca snapped. "She's mine to manage. Stop poking around in my business."
Silence.
Then:
"Don't forget dinner next Friday. Everyone will be there. Royals. Speakers. Rival families. They'll all want to know who becomes Don after me."
"Father… it hasn't been decided yet."
"Yes. But it's already assumed. Your sister won't take the crown. It falls on you."
Luca stayed quiet.
"You'll need a partner. A girlfriend. A right hand. They'll expect someone by your side. Bring her. Someone you're going to be involved with for the next three months."
Click.
The line went dead.
Luca leaned back, staring at the city sprawled beneath him.
His jaw clenched. His pulse ticked.
He remembered Celeste. In the café. Her voice. Her spine. The fire in her eyes.
Then he wondered what it would take to put out that fire.
He smirked.
He could play her — just like the others.
Or...
He could end up the one burned at her mercy.
---