Page 9 of Vows Made in Silence

I move through the exhibits, scanning every sculpture, every corner. Nothing’s been moved. But my skin still prickles like I’ve walked into a crime scene. Something’s off.

I force my legs to move toward my office—toward the one place where I still have a shred of control. The safe holds the pieces of a life I can’t afford to lose. I need them. Desperately. But as I round the doorway, I stop cold. My breath snags in my throat. A sharp gasp tears loose before I can stop it. There—on my desk. Placed with surgical precision.

A single white envelope. No markings. Just… placed. Perfectly centered on my desk.

I open it with a blade from the supply drawer—reflex more than choice. Inside is a high-resolution photograph of Daniel. Taken yesterday, judging by the clothes. He’s walking to school. Smiling. Unaware.

My stomach drops.

There’s no note. No demand. Just the image.

But it’s enough.

I slide to the floor, my back against the filing cabinet, clutching the photo like it might dissolve in my hands. They know. Not just where I am—who I love.

My phone buzzes again. A voice memo this time. I hit play. Luca’s voice floods the space—low, furious, unmistakable: “You should’ve told me the truth.”

The sound of his voice slices through me, cold and intimate. I haven’t heard it in nearly a decade, but my body remembers it like a song I used to sing when I thought I was in love.

I clutch the phone tighter, pulse hammering in my ears. He knows. Somehow, some way, he’s found me.

And if Luca’s in Vegas… everything is about to come undone.

I scramble to my feet, heart crashing in my chest as I lock the office door behind me. It was a mistake coming back to the gallery. Scared to turn on the lights, I move fast, checking windows, entry points, anything that might’ve let him in.

Or someone working for him.

Luca Moretti isn’t asking questions.

He’s coming for answers.

—

My breath hitches.

The pitch-black silence is instant, suffocating. A mafia blackout.

This isn’t a glitch.

I fumble for my phone, the screen flaring to life like a flare in a warzone. Shadows stretch long and sharp across the gallery walls. Somewhere, beyond the silence, I know someone’s waiting.

My pulse pounds like footsteps.

This is how they do it. Psychological warfare.

A whisper of movement behind one of the larger installations snaps my body into full alert. I step back, clutching my phone like it could ward off death. But there’s no one there.

Then a second sound.

The softest exhale.

Someone is here.

My flashlight beam catches a glint of steel—just for a second—tucked low in the shadows. A knife. Not mine. And it's still wet.

I freeze, every breath a razor. The blade gleams with something darker than light—thicker than water. Blood.

Is it a message? A warning? Or a signature?