The Milanese air—a cocktail of smog and humidity—felt cold against Martina's skin. Although her mind was a whirlwind of rage and calculation, her face remained a mask of glacial determination. After the phone call with Cristian, the plan was clear. She had to act. She had to go to London. Juglian had a son—a shadow from his past he had tried to bury. A son who, though adopted, was a weapon she would not hesitate to wield. She was heading toward the airport, walking briskly, her black suit making her look like the very image of power.
As she turned into a less crowded side street, she noticed a shadow trailing her. A tall man with an oily smile and greedy eyes approached. "What do you say, beautiful?" he croaked, reaching out a hand to grab her. "Looking for some company?"
Martina's heart tightened in a fist of disgust and fear—emotions she rarely permitted herself to feel. She tried to pull away, but the man was too fast. He blocked her path, his hands reaching to touch her. Her mind, so used to complex calculations and elaborate strategies, found itself helpless against a threat so primitive and brutal.
"Leave me alone!" Martina cried out, her voice a whispered prayer. "Go away!"
The man laughed, drawing closer. But before he could touch her, a hard, cold voice interrupted. "Stop."
Martina and the harasser spun around. Standing there were two youths. One sat on a motorcycle, helmet visor down—a silent, anonymous shadow. The other, standing, was a boy who looked to be about fifteen. He was incredibly tall for his age, with a slender but sculpted physique that looked like a carving of muscle and sinew. His hair was cropped short, blonde and messy, with unnatural red streaks falling over his forehead. He wore a black tank top, and a scrap of feminine fabric covering his chest peeked through. His pale blue eyes were strangely tired, as if they had seen too much for his young age. A dark, massive scar tore across his chest and arm—a mark of a battle fought and lost.
The harasser, sensing an aura of lethal danger, turned toward them. "What the fuck do you want?"
"We want you to leave her alone," the boy said, his voice a whisper of pain, but a whisper that carried latent violence. "Now. Or we'll make you regret being born."
The man laughed—a nervous sound that didn't reach his eyes. "And who are you? Her heroes?"
"No," the boy replied, his lips curling into a cold, joyless smile. "We're just here to have a little fun." He moved with unnatural speed, his feet shifting on the pavement like a dancer's. With a single, lightning-fast movement, he drove a punch into the man's stomach, followed by a hook to the jaw and a kick to the back of the head. The harasser collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Martina watched him, her mind still spinning in shock. The boy, without a shred of emotion, leaned down and slapped the man. "Never do that again," he hissed.
Then he turned to Martina, his blue eyes pools of infinite sadness. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur.
Martina nodded, still unable to find her words. She couldn't tear her gaze away from this boy. There was an energy in him that intrigued her—a brutality that reminded her of a younger, crueler version of Juglian.
"Hey," Martina said, her voice—usually so controlled—now oscillating between curiosity and provocation. "You look like you're missing a mother. Well, good news: I'm your mother... but only if your daddy is Juglian."
Matt's smile vanished, replaced by a mask of frozen composure. His blue eyes, usually tired, flared with a spark of cutting intelligence. "Martina," he replied, pronouncing her name with a calm that sent shivers down her spine. "Aren't you the one missing a son?"
"I am Juglian's adopted son," Matt continued, his voice low and deep. "Along with Near and S. But you already knew that. Didn't you?"
Martina's world stopped. Her expression melted into a mask of pure shock. How did he know Juglian? And Near? And who was "S"? The boy turned and walked toward the motorcycle. As he climbed into the saddle, his black tank top shifted slightly, revealing a small mark on the side of his back. It wasn't a tattoo. It was a scar in the shape of a five-pointed star—a star Martina knew all too well.
That star was the symbol of St. Jude's Orphanage. But it was more than that. It was a mark Juglian had impressed upon all the children he considered his "next generation of geniuses." And this boy, with his primitive violence, was a Juglian. He was undeniably a product of that legacy.
Her sharp, calculating mind went to work. This boy couldn't be Juglian's biological son, but he was clearly tied to him, to Near, and to that entire world she thought she understood. He had introduced himself with Juglian's surname and carried the orphanage's mark on his back. In that moment, Martina understood.
Matt was no simple orphan. He was her adversary. He was the shadow of the past, the antithesis of Near, returned to haunt them all. And now, Martina had a new weapon. And a new plan.