The door falls and Renata has her flashlight out. She scans it across the floor and the smell is God-awful.

There’s a bunch of plastic bags on the floor.

I don’t want to think about what fresh Hell we’ve stumbled across.

“OK. What are we looking for?” Gio manages to say before gagging.

“Serial killer.” Renata says.

“Holy shit-“

“Yup.”

“Do we have an ID on anyone?”

“Nope. I assume we’re looking for anyone in this place. Alive anyone.”

One of the bags moves.

“Fuck, hold on.” I say, crouching down.

It’s shaking.

There’s a person in there, gasping for air. I try to rip through it but it’s stretching and not tearing. So I’m clawing and grasping until a pink acrylic pierces through.

She’s crying.

Fair enough.

“Hello? Ma‘am? Can you hear me?” I say, tearing through the rest of the bag.

“Hi. Oh my God, hi.” She says in English. She’s from Manchester.

“She’s English.” I say, turning to the rest of the team. “I’ll stay here; Renata as well. You guys go.”

Gio and Sofia run off and Renata kneels next to me. I thank God that we are all friends, else no one would have known that I speak English. Or that Renata used to work in a trauma bay in Iraq.

It’s not professional, but it’ll work. For now.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Rachel. Plumber. You speak English? What’s yours?”

“Hi Rachel, my name is Lucia Mancini and I work with the NOCS, the tactical team. We are here to help you.” It sounds like I’m spouting off corporate bullshit but it seems to calm her down. And God my English is worse than I remember. “Do you know anything about what happened?”

“There was a guy.” She pauses a second. “There was a guy at the airport. He said he had a taxi. And then...I ended up here. And I was on a table...and he came up to me, so I screamed and scratched his eye. Then he stabbed me in the neck with something. And I ended up here.”

We better end up with critical shot on this man. Which means one of us has to get shot, but I’d take a bullet to kill this man.

“Do you know what he looked like?” I ask.

“He was tall. And he was brunette. His eyes were green.” My mind is making a picture and it looks a lot like Zac.

I can’t stop thinking.

Because I can’t breathe. And the room is getting smaller. And I can’t hear. And I can’t see.

“Lucia?” Renata asks me, before a sharp pain in my leg brings me back to reality.

“What?” I ask, suddenly back here, jolted by the bittersweet smell of blood and rot.

“You were having a panic attack.” Renata says, sliding her hairpin back into her bun, which is already falling apart from the five seconds it was insecure.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Can I get out of here?” Rachel asks.

“Yeah, God, sorry.” I say, grabbing her hand.

Renata clears her throat.

“Can you lie down? My colleague wants to check you’re ok. She used to be an army medic. Just till the backup arrives. OK?”

“OK. Thanks.” Rachel says as I help her down onto the floor and Renata turns her flashlight back on.

“Do you have any idea what he could’ve injected you with?” I ask.

“No. I assume tranquilliser.” Rachel says.

Renata looks at me, and I translate.

“IV tranquilliser. I assume benzodiazepines then.” Renata says, looking at the bump on Rachel’s neck, which looks a lot like a mosquito bite. “You’re OK, but you have blood everywhere. Following trauma procedure, I’m going to have to cut your trousers so I can see. OK?”

“OK.” Rachel says after I translate. “OK.” She sighs this time, and I’m suddenly reminded of every time I’ve ended up in hospital.

Then a gunshot goes off somewhere. Both our radios crackle.

“Shit. Lucia, can you do this? They need me.”

“OK. What the fuck do I do?” I say, now completely stressed.

But I’m not going to have another panic attack today.

“OK. The paramedics should be here anyways. If she’s bleeding bad, apply pressure, take the disinfectant and the dressing and explain to the paramedics. I don’t think it’s hit a blood vessel.” She says, pressing a med kit into my hands before sprinting off.

“What happened?” Rachel asks me.

“She had to go. I’m going to do this. But the paramedics will be here. Can you tell me anything about this man?”

“His name, he said was Pietro but he could be lying.” Rachel says as I slice into her leggings.

There are five deep slashes on her legs.

“Oh God.” She says.

“You’ll be OK. It hasn’t hit a blood vessel.” I say, not really knowing if it’s true or not.

But it’s not like she’s gushing blood, and that’s what Bella told me when I got stabbed, so I’m going to assume I’m right.

“He’s probably lost his eye. I gouged that thing out. Wait, that’s not assault is it?” She says, staring at her acrylics. One of them has blood crusted all around it.

“Self defence, no.”

“Good. There was a lady as well. She said her name was Katie. She was English, I think.”

“Did she do anything?”

“I heard high heels when I was in here, that’s what woke me up. And Pietro was talking to a lady called Katie.”

“She dumps the bags here?”

“I think.”

That’s when the paramedics burst in.

“Hi. This is Rachel. She’s English. She has some deep cuts. And we think she’s been drugged. Thanks.”

Rachel looks at me, before letting the paramedics wheel her away.

“Thanks, Lucia.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you at the station.”

“Bye”.

And it’s almost on cue that my radio buzzes.

“We have a lady. She says her name is Katya. But her licenses says Carolina Drummer, Victoria Heath and Ava Sunderland. We have her gun.”

“Thanks, Gio. I’m coming now.”

“We’re at the East Door. Backup’s here.”

“Great.” I say. “And I saw the other bags. Mostly all female. Mostly all British-looking.” I say, about to say chavvy, before realising Gio would have no clue what I was on about. “I think we have a serial killer here, textbook MO.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell the team.”

***

“So it was benzodiazepines then?”

“In Rachel’s system?”

“Yup. Rophlynol.”

“It’s always Rophnyol.”

“What?”

“It’s almost always Rophynol. Didn’t know it could be injected.”

“It’s commonly ingested, but it can be injected.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

The corridor outside the basement feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, or maybe it’s the fact that the walls are lined with more doors—cheap plywood, padlocks hanging open like snapped ribs. Backup is everywhere now: boots pounding, radios hissing, the whole building vibrating with the kind of urgency that only comes when everyone realises at the same time that they’ve walked into something monstrous.

I jog toward the East Door, my flashlight bouncing against my vest. My hands won’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s the cold.

It’s not the cold.

Gio spots me first. “Lucia! Over here.”

He’s standing next to a woman in a red dress that looks expensive and wildly out of place. Her makeup is smeared, her hair immaculate in a way that feels deliberate. She’s cuffed, sitting on the floor, legs crossed like she’s waiting for a manicure.

“That’s her?” I ask.

“Katya,” Gio says. “Or Carolina. Or Victoria. Or Ava. Pick one.”

She looks up at me with a smile that is all teeth and no warmth.

“You must be the English speaker,” she says, accent crisp, Eastern European. “The girl with the flashlight.”

I don’t answer. I crouch down so we’re eye level.

“Where is Pietro?”

Her smile widens. “Which one?”

Renata would know exactly how to handle this. She’d tilt her head, soften her voice, coax the truth out like pulling a thread. I’m not Renata. I’m tired and furious and still tasting the rot of that basement.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not playing.” She shrugs, the movement elegant despite the cuffs. “He has many names. Men like him always do.”

“Describe him.”

She tilts her head. “Tall. Brunette. Green eyes.”

My stomach drops.

Gio glances at me. “Lucia?”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Katya watches me too closely. “You know him.”

“No,” I snap. Too fast.

Her smile says she doesn’t believe me.

Before I can push further, Sofia jogs over, breathless. “We found another room. You need to see it.”

Of course we do.

The room is upstairs, behind a door that looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office. The smell hits first—chemical, sharp, antiseptic. A metal table sits in the center, straps dangling off the sides. There are cameras mounted in the corners. A ring light. A tripod.

And on the far wall, a bulletin board.

Photos. Dozens of them. Women. Some smiling, some terrified, some unconscious. All British.

Rachel is there. Her acrylic nails bright pink even in the grainy print.

My throat closes.

Sofia whispers, “This is organised. This is… industrial.”

Gio mutters something in Italian that I don’t catch.

I step closer to the board. There are notes scribbled in English and Italian. Times. Dates. Airports. Hotels. A map of Milan with pins stabbed into it like wounds.

And in the center, circled in red, a name:

PIETRO S.

I stare at it until the letters blur.

Sofia touches my arm. “Lucia. You’re breathing too fast.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

I swallow hard. “We need to find him.”

“We will,” Gio says. “But right now we need to process this scene.”

I nod, but my eyes drift back to the name. Pietro S. Tall. Brunette. Green eyes.

It’s stupid. It’s impossible. It’s—

“Lucia,” Sofia says gently. “Who are you thinking of?”

“No one.”

She doesn’t push. That’s the worst part.

Back downstairs, Katya is being loaded into a van. She catches my eye as they close the doors.

“You won’t find him,” she says. “He finds you.”

The doors slam shut.

I stand there, frozen, until my radio crackles again.

“Lucia, we need you in the basement. There’s something else.”

Of course there is.

I head back down the stairs, the smell hitting me like a wall again. The paramedics are gone. The bags are gone. The floor is clean except for one thing:

A phone.

Someone has placed it neatly in the center of the room, screen facing up. It wasn’t there before.

My heart stutters.

Gio steps beside me. “Is that—?”

The screen lights up.

1 new message.

From an unknown number.

I pick it up. My gloves squeak against the glass.

The message is short.

My vision tunnels. The room tilts. I hear Gio swear, hear Sofia call my name, hear the distant echo of Renata shouting for someone to get down here—

But all I can see is the message.

And all I can think is:

He knows my name.

The interrogation room is too bright. That’s the first thing Lucia notices. The fluorescents hum overhead, a sterile, needling sound that burrows into the back of her skull. She sits across from Katya—Carolina—Victoria—Ava—whatever name she’s wearing today.

Katya looks perfectly at ease. Legs crossed. Hands folded. Lipstick reapplied. Like she’s waiting for a dinner reservation.

Lucia can’t feel her own hands.

Gio stands behind the one-way glass. Renata is somewhere in the building, probably stitching someone up. Sofia is reviewing evidence. Lucia is alone with the woman who smiled when she said You won’t find him.

Lucia clears her throat. “State your real name.”

Katya smiles. “Which one do you want?”

“The one on your birth certificate.”

“Oh, that one.” She leans back. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

Lucia’s jaw tightens. “Try me.”

Katya studies her, eyes flicking over Lucia’s face like she’s reading a menu. “You’re very tense.”

“Answer the question.”

“You’re thinking about him.”

Lucia’s pulse spikes. “No.”

“You are.” Katya tilts her head. “Your pupils dilated when I said his name. Pietro. Or whatever he told you.”

Lucia’s breath stutters. “I don’t know him.”

“You do.” Katya’s voice softens, almost pitying. “Or you knew someone like him. Someone tall. Brunette. Green eyes.”

Lucia’s throat closes. The room feels smaller. The lights feel hotter. Her heartbeat is too loud.

Katya watches her unravel with clinical fascination.

“You’re shaking,” she says. “Did he hurt you?”

Lucia slams her palms onto the table. “Stop talking.”

Katya doesn’t flinch. “He likes women who fight back. He says it makes them interesting.”

Lucia’s vision tunnels. The hum of the lights grows louder. Her breath comes too fast, too shallow. She tries to ground herself—floor, chair, table—but the room is tilting.

Katya leans forward, voice low. “He knows your name.”

Lucia’s chest tightens. The phone. The message. Ciao, Lucia. See you soon.

She grips the edge of the table so hard her knuckles ache.

“Where is he?” she forces out.

Katya shrugs. “Everywhere. Nowhere. He moves like water. You can’t hold him.”

“Tell me where he is.”

“You’re not listening.” Katya taps a manicured nail against the metal table. “He’s already chosen you.”

Lucia’s stomach drops.

“He doesn’t choose randomly,” Katya continues. “He studies. He watches. He waits. And when he decides—”

“Enough.” Lucia’s voice cracks.

Katya smiles again, slow and cruel. “You’re breathing too fast.”

Lucia tries to inhale. The air feels thick. Her ribs won’t expand. Her vision blurs at the edges.

She hears the door open behind her, but it sounds far away.

“Lucia.” Renata’s voice. Sharp. Grounding. “Look at me.”

Lucia can’t.

“Lucia.” Renata’s hand is on her shoulder now. Firm. Warm. “You’re safe. Breathe.”

Katya watches with delighted curiosity.

Lucia forces a breath. Then another. The room steadies, but her hands still tremble.

Renata turns to Katya. “Interrogation is over.”

Katya pouts. “We were just getting to the good part.”

Renata ignores her, guiding Lucia out of the room. The hallway feels colder, quieter. Lucia leans against the wall, pressing her palms to her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she whispers.

“You’re not,” Renata says gently. “And that’s OK.”

Lucia swallows hard. “She knows something.”

“She knows how to get under your skin,” Renata corrects. “That’s different.”

But Lucia isn’t convinced. Because Katya’s words keep echoing in her skull.

He’s already chosen you.

And the worst part?

Lucia believes her.

By the time Lucia reaches her apartment, the sky has turned the colour of bruised peaches. Milan traffic hums below, oblivious to the fact that somewhere in the city, a man who knows her name is still breathing.

She unlocks the door quietly, but it doesn’t matter — the twins hear everything.

“Mamma!” Bianca barrels into her legs, curls bouncing.

Luca follows, clutching a stuffed dinosaur by the tail. “You’re late.”

“I know,” Lucia says, forcing a smile as she kneels to hug them. “Work was… long.”

Theo appears in the doorway to the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder, hair a mess. He gives her that look — the one that says Are you hurt? Are you lying? Are you here but not here?

She kisses him before he can ask. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He brushes a thumb under her eye. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

She’s said that too many times today.

Dinner is pasta and roasted vegetables. The twins chatter about school, about a boy who ate glue, about a girl who cried because her shoelaces were the wrong colour. Lucia nods, smiles, pretends she’s listening.

But her mind keeps drifting back to the basement. The bags. The smell. Rachel’s acrylic nail slicing through plastic like a flare in the dark.

And the message.

Ciao, Lucia.See you soon.

Her fork trembles. She sets it down.

Theo notices. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe her, but he lets it go. He always lets it go. He trusts her to tell him when she’s ready.

She’s never ready.

After the twins are asleep, Lucia steps onto the balcony with her phone. The city lights blur slightly — she’s not sure if it’s the humidity or her eyes.

She scrolls to Antonia’s name.

Her sister picks up on the second ring. “Lulu? It’s late there.”

“I know.” Lucia swallows. “I needed to talk.”

Antonia’s voice softens instantly. “What happened?”

Lucia hesitates. She’s spent years not talking about work. Years keeping the worst parts sealed away. But tonight the seal feels cracked.

“We found a… place,” Lucia says. “A basement. Women. British women. Bags. A man named Pietro.”

Silence. Then: “Pietro?”

“Yeah.”

Antonia exhales sharply. “Lucia… what did he look like?”

“Tall. Brunette. Green eyes.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

“Lulu,” Antonia says quietly, “that sounds like him.”

Lucia grips the balcony railing. “No. It can’t be.”

“He would be in his forties now,” Antonia says. “He’d look different. But the eyes — you always said his eyes were the worst part.”

Lucia’s chest tightens. She remembers those eyes. The way they followed her. The way they changed when he was angry. The way she learned to read danger in the smallest flicker.

“He’s dead,” Lucia whispers. “He has to be.”

“You never saw a body.”

Lucia closes her eyes. She was seventeen. Stupid. In love with someone who treated her like a possession. Someone who hit her once and then cried for an hour. Someone who threatened to kill himself if she left. Someone who disappeared after she finally did.

She’d spent years convincing herself he was gone.

“Antonia,” she says, voice thin, “this man — he’s abducting women. Drugging them. Cutting them. Filming them. He left a message for me.”

“What kind of message?”

Lucia’s throat works. “He knows my name.”

Antonia swears under her breath. “You need to tell your team.”

“I will.”

“Lucia.”

“I said I will.”

But she doesn’t know if she means it.

When Lucia goes back inside, Theo is waiting on the couch. He pats the cushion beside him.

She sits.

“I’m fine,” she says again.

Theo squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to be.”

Lucia leans her head on his shoulder, eyes burning. She listens to the quiet hum of the apartment, the soft breathing of her children down the hall, the steady heartbeat of the man who loves her.

And beneath it all, like a second pulse:

See you soon.

Lucia arrives at the station before dawn, the sky still a dull grey bruise. She hasn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the message on the phone.
Ciao, Lucia. See you soon.

She walks straight to the evidence room.

The phone Pietro left sits in a sealed plastic bag, tagged and logged. She stares at it through the plastic, pulse thudding in her throat.

If the team pulls metadata…
If they trace the number…
If they find any connection to her past…

She can’t let that happen.

Lucia signs the logbook with a steady hand she does not feel. She takes the bag and slips the phone into her jacket and walks out before anyone can ask questions.

Her heart doesn’t slow until she’s in the bathroom, door locked, sitting on the closed toilet lid with her head in her hands.

She’s never tampered with evidence before.

But she’s never had a ghost send her a message either.

***

The memory hits her like a migraine: sudden, bright, unwelcome.

She’s seventeen again, sitting on the back of Pete’s motorbike, arms wrapped around his waist. The world blurring past. The smell of petrol and leather. The thrill of being chosen by someone older, someone dangerous, someone who said she was “different.”

He takes her to the lake.
He always takes her to the lake.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against her neck. “Only mine.”

She laughs because she thinks it’s romantic.

Later, when he grabs her wrist too hard, she tells herself it’s passion.
When he shouts, she tells herself it’s stress.
When he cries after hitting her, she tells herself it’s love.

Antonia begged her to leave him.

Lucia didn’t listen.

Not until the night he told her, “If you ever walk away, I’ll find you.”

She walked anyway.

She never saw him again.

Until now.

***

By mid-morning, the team is gathered in the briefing room. Lucia sits at the far end of the table, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ache.

Sofia clicks through slides on the projector.

“Victims are all British women,” she says. “Ages twenty to thirty-five. All traveling alone. All arriving through Malpensa Airport.”

Lucia’s stomach twists.

Gio adds, “We also found something else. A pattern in the abductions.”

Lucia forces herself to look up.

Gio continues, “Every victim arrived on a flight from the UK. And every flight originated from airports within a two-hour radius of…”
He clicks the next slide.
“…Coventry.”

Lucia’s blood runs cold.

Sofia frowns. “That’s oddly specific. Why that region?”

Gio shrugs. “Could be coincidence. Could be where he scouts. Could be where he’s from.”

Lucia’s pulse hammers in her ears.

Coventry.
Where Antonia lives.
Where Lucia lived as a teenager.
Where Pete lived.

She keeps her face still, neutral, unreadable.
She’s trained for this.
She’s interrogated murderers without blinking.

But her hands tremble under the table.

Sofia continues, “We also found something else in the basement. A symbol carved into the wall.”

She clicks again.

A photo fills the screen: a crude carving of a circle with a slash through it.

Lucia’s breath catches.

She’s seen that symbol before.

Flashback — Pete’s ring.
A silver band with the same mark.
He said it meant “loyalty.”
She believed him.

Gio says, “We’re running it through databases, but so far nothing.”

Lucia swallows hard. “It’s probably nothing.”

Sofia glances at her. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

She’s said that word so many times it’s lost all meaning.

***

After the meeting, Lucia slips into an empty office and locks the door. She pulls out the evidence bag with the phone inside.

She should hand it over.
She should tell the truth.
She should trust her team.

Instead, she powers it on.

The screen lights up instantly, as if it’s been waiting for her.

Another message appears.

Did you tell them about us?

Lucia’s breath stops.

Another message.

You never were a good liar, amore.

Her vision blurs. She grips the desk to stay upright.

A third message.

Lucia’s knees buckle.

She sinks to the floor, phone clutched in her shaking hands, the past and present collapsing into each other like two mirrors facing inward.

She doesn’t hear the footsteps outside the door.
She doesn’t hear Sofia calling her name.
She doesn’t hear the handle turn.

She only hears Pietro’s voice from seventeen years ago, whispering in her ear:

If you ever walk away, I’ll find you.

They call Lucia at 6:14 a.m.

She’s barely slept. She’s still in yesterday’s clothes. Theo is making coffee in the kitchen, humming softly, unaware that her heart is a live wire under her ribs.

Gio’s voice crackles through the phone.“Lucia. You need to come. Now.”

“Where?”

He hesitates. “Your old neighbourhood.”

Her blood turns to ice.

The street is quiet when she arrives. A narrow alley behind a row of shuttered shops. Police tape flutters in the early morning breeze. Officers stand in a loose semicircle, faces pale.

Sofia meets her at the tape. “You should prepare yourself.”

Lucia ducks under.

The body is staged upright, sitting against the brick wall like a discarded doll. A British woman, mid-twenties. Blonde. Eyes open. A neat incision across her throat, blood dried in a dark collar.

But that’s not what makes Lucia’s stomach drop.

It’s the message.

Carved into the wall behind the body, in jagged strokes:

CIAO, LULU.

Her childhood nickname.Only one person ever called her that.

Lucia’s breath stutters. “No. No, no—”

Sofia grips her arm. “Lucia, do you know what this means?”

Lucia forces her face blank. “It means he’s escalating.”

But inside, she’s falling.

Gio crouches beside the body. “There’s something else.”

He lifts a small object in an evidence bag.

A silver ring. A circle with a slash through it.

Lucia’s vision tilts.

Sofia frowns. “You recognise it.”

Lucia shakes her head too quickly. “No.”

Gio studies her. “You sure?”

“I said no.”

Her voice is sharp enough to cut. They exchange a look she pretends not to see.

She turns away before they can ask more.

Because if she looks at that ring for one more second, she will scream.

***

She is seventeen again.

Rain slams against the windows of Pietro’s apartment. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one inside.

He’s pacing. She’s crying. His eyes are wild.

“You think you can leave me?” he shouts. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“You hit me,” she whispers.

He freezes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You said that last time.”

He steps closer. “I love you.”

She steps back. “I’m going.”

He grabs her wrist. Hard. “You’re not.”

She yanks free. “Let go.”

He slams his fist into the wall beside her head. Plaster cracks. She flinches.

“Lucia,” he says, voice trembling, “if you walk out that door, I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.”

She runs.

Down the stairs. Into the rain. Barefoot. Shaking. She doesn’t stop until she reaches Antonia’s house.

She never sees him again.

Until now.

***

Back at headquarters, the team gathers around the evidence board. Photos of victims. Maps. Timelines. The ring. The message.

Lucia stands at the edge of the room, arms crossed, nails digging into her palms.

Sofia points to the map. “This alley is two blocks from where Lucia lived as a teenager.”

Lucia’s stomach drops.

Gio adds, “And the victim arrived from Birmingham Airport. Same region as the others.”

Renata, newly arrived, frowns. “That’s too many coincidences.”

Lucia forces a shrug. “Serial killers revisit meaningful places. It’s common.”

Sofia tilts her head. “Meaningful to who?”

Lucia’s pulse spikes. “To him.”

Gio taps the ring photo. “We still don’t know what this symbol means. But it feels… personal.”

Lucia’s throat tightens.

Renata studies her. “Lucia. Are you sure you’ve never seen it before?”

Lucia meets her eyes. Holds the lie steady. “I’m sure.”

But Renata’s expression says she doesn’t believe her.

The room feels smaller. The walls closer. The air thinner.

Lucia excuses herself before anyone can stop her.

***

She locks herself in the bathroom again. Same stall. Same cold tile. Same shaking hands.

She pulls out the phone Pietro left.

Another message waits.

Did you like my gift?

Lucia’s breath catches.

Another.

You always loved surprises.

Her vision blurs.

A third.

You ran once.You won’t run again.

Lucia sinks to the floor, pressing her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound.

She doesn’t hear the footsteps outside.She doesn’t hear the knock.She doesn’t hear Renata’s voice calling her name.

She only hears Pietro’s whisper from seventeen years ago, echoing through the years like a curse:

I’ll always find you.

Lucia gets home after midnight. The apartment is dark except for the soft glow of the hallway lamp Theo always leaves on for her. She toes off her boots quietly, hoping—praying—he’s asleep.

He isn’t.

Theo is sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on his knees, her jacket in his hands.

Her jacket.

The one with the evidence phone in the inner pocket.

Lucia freezes.

Theo lifts the phone. “This was ringing.”

Her heart stops.

He sets it on the table. “It said ‘Unknown Number.’ I thought it might be work. I answered.”

Lucia’s breath catches. “Theo—”

He looks up, and she sees it: fear, confusion, betrayal. “A man said your name. He said, ‘Tell Lucia I’m proud of her for hiding me.’ Then he hung up.”

Lucia’s stomach drops. “I can explain.”

“Then explain.” His voice cracks. “Because right now I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know who’s threatening you. I don’t know why you have an unlogged phone in your coat. I don’t know why you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He stands, hands shaking. “You’re shutting me out. You’re not sleeping. You’re jumping at every sound. You’re hiding evidence, Lucia. Evidence.”

She flinches.

Theo steps closer. “Are you in danger?”

Lucia swallows. “Yes.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

She opens her mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because if she tells him the truth—

She can’t bear that.

Theo’s voice softens. “Lucia… please.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

He recoils like she slapped him. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

Lucia’s throat burns. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I’m your husband. That’s my job.”

She whispers, “Not this time.”

Theo’s jaw tightens. “So you’re choosing secrets over us.”

“I’m choosing survival.”

Theo steps back. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

Lucia grabs her keys. “I need air.”

“Lucia—”

But she’s already out the door.

The streets are empty. Cold. Lucia walks fast, hands shoved in her pockets, breath fogging in the air. Her mind is a storm—Theo’s face, the crime scene, the ring, the messages.

She ends up near the river without remembering how she got there.

Her phone buzzes.
Her personal one.

A text.

Lucia spins, scanning the shadows.

Nothing.

Her pulse spikes. She starts walking faster.

Another message.

Left.

She freezes.

Slowly, she turns her head.

A man stands under a streetlamp twenty meters away. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Still as a statue.

Lucia’s breath catches.

He lifts a hand.

Waves.

Her legs move before her brain does—she runs.

Footsteps follow.

Fast.

Too fast.

She darts into a side street, heart slamming against her ribs. She reaches for her radio—forgot it. Her gun—left it at home. Her phone—slips in her sweaty hand. She hears him behind her. Closer. She cuts through an alley, vaults a low fence, lands hard. Pain shoots up her ankle. She keeps running.

A hand grabs her arm.

Lucia screams, twisting, elbowing, fighting like instinct. The grip is iron. A voice breathes against her ear.

“Still fast, Lulu.”

Her blood turns to ice. She thrashes, nails scraping skin, teeth bared. He laughs—soft, delighted.

“You always did fight beautifully.”

She slams her head back. It connects. He grunts, loosening his hold. Lucia tears free, stumbling into the street.

Headlights blind her.

A car screeches to a stop inches from her knees.

The driver leans out, shouting in Italian.

Lucia turns back.

Pietro is gone.

Vanished into the dark.

Lucia makes it home at dawn. She’s shaking so hard she can barely get the key in the lock.

Theo is asleep on the couch, still in yesterday’s clothes, tear tracks dried on his cheeks.

Lucia sinks to the floor beside him, burying her face in her hands.

She can’t tell him.
She can’t tell the team.
She can’t tell anyone.

Because Pietro isn’t just back.

And he’s hunting her.

Lucia wakes on the living‑room floor to the sound of someone saying her name.

“Lucia. Lucia—hey—”

Theo is kneeling beside her, face pale, eyes wide with fear. His hands hover over her shoulders like he’s afraid to touch her.

She tries to sit up. Pain shoots through her ribs and her ankle. She winces.

Theo sees it. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His voice cracks. “Lucia, you’re bleeding.”

She looks down. Her shirt is torn at the shoulder, a smear of dried blood across the fabric. Her palms are scraped raw. Her ankle is swollen.

Theo’s breath shudders. “What happened to you?”

Lucia opens her mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Theo’s expression shifts—fear giving way to something sharper. “Was it him? The man who called?”

Lucia looks away.

Theo stands abruptly, pacing. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t come home injured and silent and expect me to pretend everything is normal.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s not the point.”

Lucia presses a hand to her ribs. “I can handle it.”

Theo stops pacing. “You’re not handling it. You’re falling apart.”

She flinches.

He softens instantly. “Lucia… please. Let me help.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t drag you into this.”

“You already have.”

***

The call comes at 9:17 a.m.

Lucia is still sitting on the couch, ankle wrapped, Theo hovering like a storm cloud.

Her phone rings.

The school.

Her heart stops.

She answers. “This is Lucia Mancini.”

The receptionist’s voice is tight. “Signora Mancini… we received a package addressed to your children.”

Lucia’s blood runs cold. “What kind of package?”

“A small box. No return address. The handwriting is… unusual.”

Theo’s eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”

Lucia holds up a hand.

The receptionist continues, “We didn’t open it. But we thought it best to call you immediately.”

Lucia forces her voice steady. “Don’t touch it. I’m on my way.”

She hangs up.

Theo grabs his coat. “I’m coming with you.”

Lucia hesitates.

He steps closer. “You’re hurt. You’re scared. And this involves our children. I’m coming.”

She nods.

They leave together.

At the school, officers have already cordoned off the small administrative office. The box sits on the desk—brown cardboard, tied with twine, the twins’ names written in looping cursive.

Their birthday isn’t for another three months.

Lucia’s stomach twists.

A bomb tech opens the box carefully.

Inside:

Two identical stuffed dinosaurs.

One green, one purple.

And between them, a note.

Lucia’s hands shake as she unfolds it.

Lucia’s vision blurs.

Theo reads over her shoulder.

His breath stops. “Who is this man?”

Lucia can’t speak.

Theo turns to her, voice breaking. “Lucia. He knows our children.”

She nods.

Theo grips her shoulders. “You need to tell your team. Now.”

Lucia swallows hard.

She knows he’s right.

But she also knows what will happen when she does.

Back at headquarters, Lucia hands the note to Gio and Sofia. Renata arrives moments later, eyes widening as she reads it.

Gio looks at Lucia. “Why didn’t you tell us he contacted you before?”

Lucia’s throat tightens. “I—”

Sofia interrupts, voice soft but firm. “Lucia. He’s targeting your family.”

Renata steps closer. “You should have told us.”

Lucia feels the room closing in. “I didn’t want to compromise the investigation.”

Gio exchanges a look with Sofia. “You already have.”

The words hit like a punch.

Sofia clears her throat. “We spoke to the commander.”

Lucia’s stomach drops.

Renata shakes her head. “I tried to argue. But—”

Gio finishes for her. “You’re being pulled off the case.”

Lucia’s breath catches. “No.”

“It’s protocol,” Sofia says gently. “You’re a direct target. You can’t be objective.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Gio says quietly. “And that’s okay.”

Lucia steps back. “You can’t do this. I know him. I know how he thinks.”

Renata’s voice softens. “That’s exactly why you can’t be on this case.”

Lucia feels something inside her crack.

She walks out of the briefing room, down the hall, into the stairwell. She grips the railing, knuckles white.

Her phone buzzes.

A new message.

Lucia’s breath stutters.

She sinks onto the stairs, pressing her fist to her mouth to keep from screaming.

They call her at dawn.

She shouldn’t be on the case. She shouldn’t even be in the building. But Renata calls her privately, voice tight.

“Lucia… you need to come. Now.”

Lucia’s stomach drops. “What happened?”

Renata hesitates. “It’s… personal.”

The crime scene is a derelict apartment on the outskirts of Milan. The kind of place teenagers break into for cheap thrills and adults avoid on instinct.

Lucia steps inside.

And freezes.

The room is a perfect reconstruction.

Her breath catches.

It’s Pietro’s old apartment.

The one she ran from at seventeen.

Her pulse spikes. “No. No, this isn’t—”

Renata touches her arm. “Lucia… look.”

A woman lies on the floor.

Young. Blonde. Lean. Wearing a cheap necklace identical to the one Lucia wore at seventeen.

Lucia’s vision tunnels.

It’s a reenactment. A reenactment of the night Lucia escaped.

Renata kneels beside the body. “He staged everything. Down to the smallest detail.”

Lucia’s throat closes. “Why?”

Gio answers from behind them. “Because he’s sending a message.”

Lucia turns.

Gio’s face is grim. “He’s telling us he knows your past. And he’s telling you he remembers.”

Lucia’s hands shake. “This isn’t possible. He wasn’t—he didn’t—”

Sofia steps forward, holding a plastic evidence bag.

Inside is a folded piece of paper.

Lucia’s heart stops.

Sofia hands it to her. “It has your name on it.”

Lucia opens it with trembling fingers.

Lucia’s knees buckle.

Renata catches her. “Lucia. Breathe.”

She is seventeen again.

“You’re not leaving,” he snarls.

Lucia backs toward the door. “I am.”

He grabs her wrist. Hard. “You’re mine.”

She tries to pull away. “Let go.”

He slams her against the wall. The breath leaves her lungs. Pain blooms across her shoulder.

He leans in, breath hot and furious. “If you walk out that door, I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.”

She sees something in his eyes then—something cold, something bottomless, something that isn’t love.

Something that wants to own her.

She knees him in the stomach.

He doubles over.

She runs.

She doesn’t stop until she reaches Antonia’s house.

She never looks back.

Back in the present, Lucia stands in the reconstructed apartment, staring at the body that could have been her.

Renata speaks softly. “Lucia… we need to take you home.”

“No.”

“Lucia—”

“No.”

Lucia steps away from her, from all of them. Her voice is low, steady, terrifyingly calm.

“He’s not going to stop. Not until he gets to me. Not until he gets to my family.”

Gio frowns. “We’ll protect you.”

“You can’t.” Lucia shakes her head. “You don’t understand him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Sofia steps forward. “Then tell us.”

Lucia’s jaw tightens. “I can’t.”

Renata’s voice softens. “Lucia. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Lucia turns to her, eyes burning. “I’m thinking more clearly than I have in weeks.”

She looks at the staged room again.

At the body.

At the message.

At the past she thought she buried.

And something inside her breaks.

She walks toward the door.

Gio blocks her path. “Where are you going?”

Lucia meets his eyes.

“Hunting.”

Sofia’s eyes widen. “Lucia—no. You’re off the case. You can’t—”

“I’m not asking permission.”

Renata grabs her arm. “Lucia. Stop. You’re not going after him alone.”

Lucia pulls free. “I already am.”

She leaves before they can stop her.

Her phone buzzes.

A new message.

Lucia pockets the phone.

And for the first time since this nightmare began—

She isn’t afraid.

She’s furious.

And Pietro has no idea what he’s unleashed.

Coventry smells the same.

Rain on concrete. Exhaust. The faint metallic tang of the train station she used to pass through every day after school. Lucia steps off the platform with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a heartbeat that feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of her ribs.

She hasn’t been here in seventeen years.

She swore she never would.

But Pietro has been leaving breadcrumbs, and every single one has pointed back to this city — to the place where he made her, broke her, and promised he’d never let her go.

She walks through the underpass, past the graffiti she remembers from when she was a teenager. Some of it is new. Some hasn’t changed at all.

She stops at the end of the tunnel.

A message is spray‑painted across the wall in looping black letters.

WELCOME HOME, LULU.

Her breath catches.

He’s close.

***

She follows the trail he’s left — subtle, but unmistakable. A symbol carved into a lamppost. A scrap of paper tucked under a stone. A single green acrylic nail left on a bench.

He’s taunting her.

He’s guiding her.

He’s daring her.

The trail ends at a house on the outskirts of the city.
A house she knows.

Pietro’s old house.

The one she ran from barefoot and bleeding.

The windows are boarded. The garden is overgrown. The front door hangs crooked on its hinges.

Lucia steps inside.

The air is stale. Dust motes drift in the light from her flashlight. The wallpaper is peeling. The floorboards creak under her boots.

And then she sees it.

A chair in the center of the room.

A rope coiled neatly beside it.

A silver ring placed on the seat.

Her stomach twists.

He’s recreating everything.

Every detail.

Every nightmare.

A voice comes from behind her.

Soft. Familiar.
Rotten at the edges.

“Lulu.”

Lucia turns.

Pietro stands in the doorway.

Older. Thinner. Eyes the same poisonous green.

He smiles.

“You came back.”

3. The Confrontation

Lucia’s hand goes to her gun.

Pietro lifts his hands, amused. “Always so dramatic.”

“Don’t move.”

“You’re shaking,” he says softly. “Just like the night you left.”

Lucia steadies her grip. “You killed those women.”

“I did what I had to do.” He shrugs. “They weren’t you.”

Her stomach turns.

“You hurt my family.”

“I sent them gifts.” He tilts his head. “I wanted them to know me.”

“You stay away from them.”

He steps closer. “I waited seventeen years for you. I built a life around the idea of you. I made a world where you would have no choice but to return.”

Lucia’s voice is ice. “You built a graveyard.”

He smiles. “For anyone who wasn’t you.”

She fires.

The bullet hits the wall beside his head. He doesn’t flinch.

“Still impulsive,” he murmurs. “Still beautiful.”

Lucia fires again.

This time he moves — fast, too fast — grabbing her wrist, slamming her against the wall. Pain explodes through her shoulder.

He leans in, breath hot against her ear.

“You belong to me.”

Lucia twists, slams her knee into his ribs, breaks free. He lunges. She ducks. They crash into the chair, splintering it.

He grabs her throat.

She claws at his arm, vision blurring.

“Stop fighting,” he whispers. “You never win.”

Lucia’s hand finds the broken chair leg.

She drives it into his side.

Pietro gasps.

Stumbles.

Falls to his knees.

Lucia stands over him, chest heaving.

He looks up at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You… you were mine.”

Lucia’s voice is steady.

“I was never yours.”

She fires one last time.

***

Lucia steps outside into the cold Coventry air. Rain begins to fall — soft at first, then harder, washing the blood from her hands, her clothes, her skin.

A police siren wails in the distance.

She doesn’t run.

She doesn’t hide.

She stands in the rain and breathes for the first time in seventeen years.

Her phone buzzes.

A message from Theo.

Where are you? Please come home. We need you. I need you.

Lucia closes her eyes.

For the first time, she believes him.

She turns toward the station.

Toward Milan.

Toward her children.

Toward a life that is finally hers again.