The rain continued to fall, but Near did not feel it. His face, pale and youthful, was motionless, almost like a wax mask. He sat in his car, phone pressed to his ear. "I found him, Martina," he said, his voice a whisper—the whisper of a genius who had just cracked a code. "He's in Milan. He's working as a photographer for a shoot."
On the other end of the line, Martina felt as if she had just won the lottery. Her heart, once a block of ice, was now a drum beating wildly—a rhythm of excitement and hope. "Are you sure it's him, Near?" she asked, her voice trembling like a woman who had waited years for this exact second.
"I saw him; I saw him with my own eyes," Near said. "It's him. He has the face, he has the body. But it's more than just his look. He has an aura. An aura of pain. And of solitude."
Martina felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Juglian—her Juglian—was in Milan. He was in the city, and he wasn't alone. He had his sons; he had his family.
"And Cristian?" Martina asked. "Did you see him?"
"Yes," Near replied. "I saw him. And I saw how Juglian looked at him. It was a mixture of love and agony. It was an emotion I had never witnessed before. And I saw how Cristian looked back. It was a mixture of hate and love. It was an emotion I had never witnessed before."
Martina sank onto the sofa, her mind a whirlwind. "What do we do?" she asked. "What do we do now?"
"The plan is simple," Near said. "We use Cristian. We use his pain. We use his rage. We use his love. We use him to get to Juglian."
Martina smiled—a smile not of malice, but of hope. "You're right," she said. "You're always right."
"But there's one more thing," Near added. "Something else we must do. We must make him suffer. We must make him pay for what he did."
Martina felt the wind knocked out of her again. "But why?" she asked. "Why do you want to make him suffer?"
"Because he made us suffer," Near said flatly. "He made us suffer for years. He made us suffer through his love. He made us suffer through his absence."
Martina remained silent. She understood. She understood that Near's thirst for vengeance was stronger than her own urge to forgive—and she realized her desire to forgive was, perhaps, becoming stronger than her own thirst for revenge.
The Manipulator's Game
Far away, beyond the rain, Cristian stood beneath a black umbrella. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his face, pale and child-like, was as still as stone. He had watched the match with his usual meticulous attention, but his emerald-green eyes were not on the field. They were fixed on the man in the dark coat.
He had recognized him instantly, despite the disguise. He had seen him in magazines, on television, on massive billboards. The "God of Muscles," the world-famous model, the man who had made his father a legend. But he wasn't just a model. He was Juglian. He had seen him; he had seen those sapphire eyes; he had seen the pain.
Near turned and headed toward his car. He pulled out his phone and dialed. "Martina," he said, his voice a whisper of a genius who had just solved the ultimate enigma. "I've found him. And I have a plan."