The rain hadn't stopped for days.
Milan was drowning in gray skies and mourning banners. News anchors still spoke of the explosion that killed Leonardo DeLuca — half calling him a criminal, half calling him a hero.
But to Amira, he was neither.
He was a ghost.
And ghosts didn't die that easily.
She stood before the window of the safehouse, her reflection pale in the glass, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. Layla had gone to stay with relatives under Daniel's protection, but Amira stayed behind — unable to leave the city where everything ended.
The drive had done its job. Lang International was in ruins. The board members had been arrested, assets frozen, fortunes scattered.
And yet…
Her heart whispered one impossible thing.
He's still alive.
It started with the first email.
The subject line was blank. The sender's address was encrypted — no name, no trace. Inside, only one sentence:
"Check the old vault at midnight."
Amira froze when she read it. The vault. The same underground room where she last saw Leonardo alive.
She showed the message to Daniel.
"This could be a trap," he warned.
"Or a sign," she whispered.
That night, she went anyway.
The vault was buried beneath the DeLuca estate — a shell of steel and memory.
She pushed open the rusted door, the air thick with dust and regret. The last time she was here, she'd been trembling in Leonardo's arms.
Now, only silence greeted her.
Her flashlight swept across the room — metal crates, old files, bloodstains long dried. Then she saw it: a silver lighter on the table, engraved with a single word.
"Mine."
Her breath hitched. It was his.
She picked it up with shaking fingers.
And beneath it — a note.
"The dead don't write letters, Amira. But the living can pretend."
Before she could process it, a voice came from the shadows.
"Funny how you always come back to where he died."
Amira turned sharply. A tall figure stepped forward — Daniel, holding a gun.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I could ask you the same," he replied coldly. "You weren't supposed to be here alone."
"I got an email—"
"I know," he interrupted. "I sent it."
Her heart stopped. "You what?"
He lowered the gun. "I needed to see how far you'd go."
Anger flared in her chest. "You played me?"
"I protected you," he snapped. "Leonardo's enemies are still out there. And now someone's pretending to be him."
Amira frowned. "What do you mean 'pretending'?"
Daniel pulled out a photo. Grainy, taken from a distance — but unmistakable. A man with Leonardo's build, his walk, his ring.
Her stomach dropped. "That's—"
"I know what it looks like," Daniel said quietly. "But this man… he's not Leonardo."
Amira stared at the picture until her hands trembled. "Where was this taken?"
"Zurich," he said. "Three days ago."
Her eyes burned. "Then that's where I'm going."
Daniel stepped closer. "You're not thinking clearly. Whoever's doing this wants you to chase them."
She met his gaze — her voice steady, defiant.
"Then let them find me chasing."
Two days later, Amira was in Switzerland.
Snow blanketed the streets, turning the city into a mirror of white silence. She moved like a shadow — black coat, sunglasses, a gun hidden beneath her sleeve.
Everywhere she went, she felt eyes following her.
By dusk, she found the place — a half-abandoned hotel near the lake. Room 304.
The same number Leonardo used for his private security codes.
She took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened slowly.
And then she froze.
Because the man standing before her had his face.
"Leo…" she whispered.
He looked at her, expression unreadable — the same dark eyes, the same scar above his brow.
But his voice was colder. Rougher.
"You shouldn't have come here."
Her knees nearly gave out. "You're alive. I thought—"
"Leonardo DeLuca is dead," he said flatly.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, I buried your name, but I know you."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his breath.
"You know a ghost, Amira. I don't exist anymore."
Her voice broke. "Then why are you here?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he brushed past her, his scent — smoke and rain — hitting her like a memory.
"Whoever you are," she said, "you kept this lighter."
She held it out.
For a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Recognition. Pain. Love.
Then he looked away. "You should leave. Victor Lang wasn't the only devil in this game. The ones behind him — they're still watching. You'll get yourself killed."
Amira's heart pounded. "Then help me finish it."
He turned back, his voice sharp. "Don't test me, Amira."
"You already tested me," she shot back. "You married me for revenge. You lied to me, disappeared, made me bury you — and I still came back. So tell me, who's really being tested here?"
Silence. Only the sound of the wind against the window.
Then, slowly, he smiled — a shadow of the man she loved.
"You still have fire."
"And you still have secrets," she whispered.
That night, they sat across from each other in that dimly lit hotel room, a bottle of whiskey between them.
He told her things — half-truths and fragments. How he escaped the explosion through a sub-basement tunnel. How he'd been found by a man named Nikolai, a power broker who pulled strings behind Lang International.
"How deep does it go?" she asked.
"Deeper than the board, deeper than the companies," he said. "They control governments. They built Lang to hide something much worse — a data network that manipulates global markets."
"And you?" she asked softly. "What do you plan to do?"
He looked at her — eyes hard, almost cruel. "Destroy it. All of it."
Her throat tightened. "Even if it kills you?"
He didn't hesitate. "Especially if it kills me."
Amira stood slowly. "Then I'm not leaving your side again."
He met her eyes, pain flashing through his expression. "You should."
"Why?"
"Because if you stay," he said, voice breaking, "you'll see what I've become. And you won't recognize me anymore."
At dawn, Amira woke to find the bed empty.
A note rested on the pillow.
"Don't follow me. I'm not your husband anymore. – L."
Her tears fell soundlessly onto the paper.
Then she noticed something else — a bloodstain, faint but fresh, on the edge of the note.
Her grief turned to fury.
He was hurt. He was lying.
And this time, she wasn't going to let the ghost walk away.
By noon, she was gone — back in the car, back on the road, chasing shadows again.
But this time, she wasn't the paper bride who waited for a man to save her.
This time, she was the storm.
And somewhere ahead, in the ruins of a world they'd both destroyed, Leonardo DeLuca — the man, the ghost, the myth — was waiting.