The water ran cold from the kitchen tap, splashing against the porcelain sink. Lucía kept her hands under the stream, rubbing her thumbs over the heavy, waterproof paper of the ledger page. The blood was fresh. It clung to her skin like syrup, smelling of rust and terrible mistakes.
It was not her blood. It belonged to the collector her stepfather had brought to the apartment twenty minutes ago. The man had tried to collect a gambling debt by backing Lucía against the refrigerator. He had underestimated her grip on the cast-iron skillet. He was currently bleeding on the hallway tiles, unconscious but breathing.
Lucía did not shake. She scrubbed.
Freeze first. Think second. Feel last. She dried the page with a clean towel, her dark eyes scanning the encrypted numbers. Her father had died for these columns of figures. She folded the sheet, knelt, and slid it into the hollow space beneath the baseboard, right next to the rest of the thick, leather-bound book.
A heavy, definitive crash shuddered through the apartment walls.
Not a knock. Not the police. The police knocked. This was steel meeting wood.
Lucía stood up. She checked the distance to the fire escape—twelve steps. Too far. The lock on the front door splintered with a sound like a breaking bone. The wood gave way.
Three men stepped over the ruined door frame and the unconscious collector in the hall. They did not wear masks. In Porto Nero, men who worked for Carlo De Santis did not need to hide their faces. The city belonged to them.
The lead man kicked the skillet out of the way. He was massive, his suit tailored to hide the bulk of a shoulder holster. He looked at the blood on the floor, then at Lucía, standing by the sink.
"Your stepfather is a very stupid man, Lucía," the man said. His voice was flat, bored. "He put your name on the paper. As collateral."
Lucía kept her face entirely blank. She forced her breathing to slow, pushing the panic down into a dark, locked box in her chest. If she showed fear, she became prey.
"My stepfather has no legal right to my name," Lucía said. Her voice did not tremble. It was the same precise, controlled tone she used to manage the fraudulent accounts at the nightclub. "And you know it."
"Legal right means nothing. We aren't in court." The man took a step forward. The kitchen felt instantly suffocating. "Carlo wants the debt settled. He also wants the book your father left behind. We know you have it."
Everyone wanted something from her.
"If I give it to Carlo, I am dead," Lucía said, her mind calculating angles, exits, and leverages. "If you take me, the ledger stays buried, and the cipher dies in my head. You get nothing."
The man tilted his head. "We have ways of opening heads."
"You don't have the time," Lucía countered, stepping away from the sink, keeping the kitchen island between them. "I know how the syndicate works. I balance your books at the club. Carlo is the acting Don, but he is not the heir. If you take me, you start a fire in your own house. I will not speak to Carlo. I will only negotiate with the heir."
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You want an audience with the Crow? He doesn't negotiate with bookkeepers."
"Tell him the bookkeeper has the missing accounts from the port," Lucía said, her voice dropping, turning sharp as broken glass. "Tell him I can prove who is bleeding his future empire dry. Tell him that, or shoot me right here and explain to Matteo De Santis why you burned his money."
Silence stretched. The men exchanged a look. The hierarchy of the De Santis family was a loaded gun, and Lucía had just put her finger on the trigger.
The leader pulled out a phone. He did not take his eyes off her.
Lucía exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding. She had bought herself a handful of hours. But the trap was closing.