There are places in Aurelia where the light never touches.
We're in one of them now.
A decommissioned metro tunnel beneath the old embassy district, lit only by stolen power and memory.
The smell of wet stone and forgotten electricity fills the air. Our boots echo. The silence is thick. Not dead — watchful.
Killian moves ahead of me, sweeping every corner with that terrifying calm I've learned to fear and depend on in equal measure.
I follow with the folder tucked under my coat, my mind still looping the words like a song I can't silence:
My mother is alive.
My father is a war criminal.
And I don't know who I am anymore.
We reach the door.
Rusty steel. Marked with a faded white X.
Killian knocks once, twice, once.
It opens.
A man in a leather apron waves us in without a word.
This is a morgue.
But not a legal one.
It's where bodies go when the cause of death would embarrass a senator — or topple a government.
Killian says we're here to check a hunch.
He doesn't elaborate.
I don't ask.
We walk past metal gurneys and freezer drawers.
The man leads us to one in the far corner.
Unzips the body bag.
I don't recognize the man inside.
But Killian does.
"Luciano D'Avanti," he murmurs.
"Who?"
"Mob lieutenant. Disappeared ten years ago. Presumed dead."
"He doesn't look dead to you now?"
"Not the point."
I lean closer.
His chest is bare.
And inked across his ribs — bold, black, and unmistakable — is a symbol I've only ever seen once before.
A serpent coiled around a dagger.
Bleeding roses.
I freeze.
"I've seen this before," I whisper.
Killian nods grimly. "Your father has it. Left shoulder blade."
"No. I mean—I've seen it as a child. In the garden. On a ring. He used to wear it when my mother wasn't around."
Killian looks at me.
Hard.
"He was one of them."
My throat goes dry.
"One of who?"
He looks back at the corpse.
And says a name I haven't heard in years.
"The Dolci Syndicate."
The word hits like a gunshot.
"No," I say too fast.
"No?"
"They're a myth. They ran drugs and body laundering in the '90s. They burned out in the cartel wars."
"They didn't burn out," he says. "They evolved. Into politicians. Bankers. Judges."
He gestures to the body.
"This is a warning. Someone wants us to remember who your father used to be."
I look again at the tattoo.
It's fresh.
Too fresh to belong to a corpse gone missing a decade ago.
"This body's not ten years old," I whisper.
Killian nods.
"Someone's copying the symbol. Reawakening the bloodline."
"Which means?"
"Your father's past is coming back. And whoever's resurrecting the Dolci name—"
"Wants him dead."
Killian doesn't answer.
But I know he agrees.
We leave the morgue.
The city above is louder now — more frantic. Sirens scream in the distance. Power's been flickering across half the downtown grid since the vault imploded.
We duck into a safehouse Killian trusts.
He's silent for a long time.
Pacing.
Thinking.
I finally speak.
"You knew about the Dolci?"
"I had fragments."
"From where?"
"My black-ops dossier. I was briefed on mob lineage when I first got embedded into your family."
I snort. "So you were reading my life like a mafia memoir while I was planning charity galas?"
He looks at me.
"Phoebe…"
"No. I get it. I was your target. Your liability. The spoiled daughter of a smiling mob prince."
He steps forward.
But I'm already moving past him.
I find the bathroom.
Shut the door.
Lock it.
And stare at myself in the mirror.
Again.
Same woman.
Different monster staring back.
For years I thought my worst fear was becoming like my father.
Now I wonder if I already have.
I lean over the sink.
Splash cold water on my face.
Something in me wants to burn everything down.
But something stronger wants to understand it first.
So I return to the files.
Back to the symbol.
The serpent. The blade. The roses.
Then, taped to the back of one page, I find something new.
A photo.
Grainy. Dated.
My father.
In a warehouse.
With men wearing the same tattoo.
One of them is holding a child.
The child is me.
I'm no older than six.
Smiling.
Wearing a crown of paper roses.
My blood runs cold.
The roses.
They weren't just decoration.
They were branding.
"Killian," I whisper.
He's at my side in seconds.
I show him.
He doesn't speak for a long moment.
Finally, he exhales.
"They raised you in the center of a syndicate and convinced you it was a kingdom."
I can't breathe.
He steps closer.
"This is why your mother left."
"She didn't leave," I say. "She vanished."
He nods. "Or she ran."
He takes the photo.
Flips it.
There's a smudged signature on the back.
"D.A. Venti."
He stiffens.
"What?"
"This isn't just a mob signature."
"What do you mean?"
He holds up the photo.
"This was the codename for the man who brokered Dolci into the presidential family."
My heart stalls.
"Brokered?"
"They didn't climb the ladder. They were invited."
The walls feel like they're closing in.
"And who was D.A. Venti?"
He meets my eyes.
"You're not going to like this."
"Say it."
"Your godfather."
My legs go weak.
"Ambassador Crane?"
He nods.
Suddenly, everything I knew about my father's campaign… the money… the clean image… the security details handpicked before the election… it all feels like a stage set for a much older play.
I take a deep breath.
Then I whisper, "What if this isn't just about stopping my father?"
Killian tilts his head.
"What if this is about replacing him?"
He doesn't answer.
Because he knows I'm right.
Someone is pulling strings.
But not to destroy the throne.
To steal it.
We get a ping three hours later.
Anonymous tip.
Address only.
No name.
Warehouse. Dock 9. South District.
Come alone.
Killian looks at me.
His eyes say don't go.
But mine say I have to.
We gear up.
He hides on a rooftop three buildings down.
I enter the warehouse alone.
The metal door creaks open.
Inside: cold air. Empty crates. And a single folding chair in the middle of the floor.
On it—
A phone.
No note.
Just a blinking light.
I pick it up.
Hit play.
A video starts.
Shaky camera. Shadows.
A room.
Someone bound in a chair.
Head covered.
Then—
The bag is pulled off.
And I see her.
Eyes swollen. Mouth bloody.
But alive.
My mother.
Tears spring to my eyes.
She's older. But it's her. It's her.
She looks straight at the camera.
And says:
"Phoebe. Don't trust him. He—"
The feed cuts.
Static.
Silence.
Behind me, I hear a door slam shut.
And then…
Footsteps.