The morning after meeting with Lorenzo and Carlo, the weight of everything settled over me like a heavy fog.
Every noise outside my apartment sounded louder. Every glance from a stranger lingered too long. The city I had always thought of as my home felt like enemy territory, a labyrinth filled with unseen threats.
I spent most of the morning pacing my living room, staring at my phone every few minutes, willing it to buzz. Lorenzo's words from the day before replayed in my mind on an endless loop.
"The longer you wait, the closer they get."
He wasn't wrong. Waiting felt like standing still while the walls closed in around me. But I hated the feeling of being pulled into his game, dependent on his moves to survive.
By early afternoon, my phone buzzed.
Lorenzo: "Be ready in one hour. Wear something that doesn't stand out."
I frowned, rereading the message twice. His cryptic instructions were beginning to grate on me, but questioning him now felt pointless.
An hour later, a car pulled up outside my apartment—a sleek black sedan, different from the one that had picked me up the day before.
The driver, a petite woman with sharp features and an air of unshakable confidence, opened the door for me without saying a word.
The ride was silent, the streets of Milan blurring past the tinted windows.
"Where are we going?" I asked after several minutes, my voice breaking the tension in the car.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, her expression blank. "Lorenzo will explain."
Her voice was calm, but it carried a quiet finality that made it clear she wasn't going to say anything more.
The car pulled into an alleyway behind a small, unmarked building in a quieter part of the city. The driver parked and gestured for me to follow her to a metal door at the back of the building.
She knocked twice, her movements precise, almost mechanical.
The door swung open moments later, revealing a man I didn't recognize. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the kind of confidence that made my skin crawl.
"Elena," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "This way."
I hesitated, glancing back at the driver, but she was already retreating to the car. Left with no other option, I stepped through the door.
The metal slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space.
The room I entered was small and cramped, the walls lined with shelves of old books, faded photographs, and scattered equipment. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.
Lorenzo was waiting for me in the center of the room, deep in conversation with another man I didn't recognize—a wiry figure with a nervous energy that reminded me of a cornered animal.
When Lorenzo saw me, he waved the man away and turned his full attention to me.
"Elena," he said, his voice smooth and calm. "We don't have much time."
"For what?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"To show you how this war is going to be won."
He led me through a narrow hallway into a larger room, and the sight of it made me stop in my tracks.
The walls were covered with maps, some marked with red strings and notes written in sharp, precise handwriting. A table in the center was littered with documents—ledgers, photographs, lists of names. And against one wall, a bank of monitors displayed live camera feeds of locations across the city.
"This is where it starts," Lorenzo said, gesturing toward the room.
"What is this?" I asked, taking a hesitant step forward.
"An information hub," Lorenzo explained. "Every piece of intel we gather on the Calvinis and their network comes through here. This is how we stay one step ahead."
I turned to him, my skepticism clear. "And why am I here?"
"Because you've already proven you're capable of fighting back," Lorenzo said, his gaze steady. "Now it's time to show you how to fight smarter."
For the next hour, Lorenzo walked me through the Calvinis' operations in painstaking detail.
The maps showed their territories, smuggling routes, and known safe houses. The documents outlined their business dealings, their allies, and their enemies. And the monitors offered a live view of their movements—warehouses, meeting points, and key figures going about their day.
It was overwhelming.
"This is how you've been staying ahead of them," I said, staring at the screens.
"It's part of it," Lorenzo admitted. "But information is only half the battle. The rest is knowing how to use it."
"And what do you want from me?"
He turned toward me, his expression serious. "Your mind. Your instincts. You see things differently than the rest of us—legal loopholes, weak points. You're not just a fighter, Elena. You're a strategist."
Before I could respond, a new voice interrupted us.
"This is insanity."
I turned to see Carlo standing in the doorway, his face etched with frustration.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, stepping into the room.
"It's the future," Lorenzo said smoothly.
Carlo ignored him, his attention focused on me. "Elena, you shouldn't even be here. Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"
I crossed my arms, glaring at him. "I'm trying to survive."
"And you think this is the way to do it?" Carlo gestured toward the monitors, his voice rising. "This isn't survival—it's suicide."
The tension between the three of us was palpable, the air thick with unspoken accusations.
"Enough," I said finally, my voice cutting through the silence. "What's done is done. The question is, what do we do next?"
Lorenzo smirked faintly. "We take the next step."
"And what step is that?" I asked.
Lorenzo walked over to one of the monitors, gesturing to a live feed of a warehouse.
"That," he said, pointing to the screen. "The Calvinis' main distribution hub. If we hit it, we can disrupt their entire operation."
Carlo shook his head. "And paint an even bigger target on our backs."
"They're already targeting us," Lorenzo said, his tone sharp. "This is about sending a message. If they think we're weak, we're dead. But if we show them we can hit back—hard—they'll think twice."
I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting.
"And what happens if we fail?" I asked quietly.
"We won't," Lorenzo said simply.
His confidence was unnerving.
Carlo turned to me, his expression serious. "You don't have to do this, Elena. You're already in enough danger. Don't let him drag you into something you can't come back from."
Lorenzo stepped closer, his gaze locked onto mine. "You called me, Elena. You asked for my help. This is it. The only question is, are you ready to fight?"
That night, as I lay awake in my apartment, their words echoed in my mind.
Carlo's warnings, Lorenzo's promises—it was impossible to know who to trust, or if I could trust anyone at all.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I grabbed it quickly, my heart pounding.
Lorenzo: "The clock is ticking, Elena. Make your choice."
I stared at the message for a long time, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The game had begun, and I wasn't sure I could survive it.