Chapter Sixty-Four
Gualtiero
I’m sitting on my terrace, looking up at the stars like I’ve done every single night since Ella ran.
What am I hoping for? For answers to her whereabouts to suddenly appear?
I shake my head at my own foolishness, glancing at Oreo, who is sleeping at my feet.
I should go to bed and rest; I’m bone-deep tired. But I haven’t slept properly since I held my angel in my arms that last night in Monza.
It seems like an eternity ago, yet it hasn’t even been two full weeks. We’ll reach that mark around nine o’clock in the morning.
These have been the longest fucking two weeks of my life.
Not knowing where she is, whether she’s safe, it’s eating at me.
I lift my eyes to the sky. The stars are bright tonight. Is she looking at them too?
My eyes begin to burn, and a lone tear travels slowly down my cheek.
Christ, when was the last time I cried?
Enzo’s death.
A shuffle of a chair beside me pulls my gaze away from the sky. Mateo sits down.
That too has been happening each night since Ella disappeared. Since our return from Switzerland, he’s been staying here rather than at his own place. He’s worried about me.
Oreo briefly stirs to look at my brother before settling his head on my foot again.
I sense Teo’s eyes on me, feel his concern. He’s never seen me shed a tear.
I don’t hide it from him.
He gets to see me just as I am. Worn thin. Raw. A man who has lost his footing but not his will.
We sit in silence. The kind that doesn’t demand words.
Mateo’s steady presence anchors me. For a few minutes, I can breathe.
Then my phone pings with an email alert, the sound cutting through the calm.
I frown. Only a few people know about this account.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open my inbox.
Anonymous sender.
My pulse picks up. I open the message, scanning the content.
Everything else fades. The terrace. The stars. Even Mateo.
I sit up straighter, my body reacting before my mind fully catches up.
Mateo turns toward me, alert now, his posture shifting from companion to soldier.
“What is it?” he asks.
I jump up, too wired to remain sitting. Oreo startles and lets out an unhappy bark before trotting inside to find his siblings.
“Ella O’Neil is on board Poseidon’s Princess,” I read, forcing myself to go slowly. My voice is steady, though something tight coils beneath my ribs. “…a cruise ship set to arrive in New York on October fourth. Ella is instructed to disembark in Halifax two days prior.”
Mateo stares at me, absorbing every word. “Who is this email from?”
“I have no idea.” I scroll, checking again, as if the answer might suddenly change. “It’s not signed. The address shows as anonymous.”
“That could be a false lead,” he says. “Someone’s messing with you.”
“It could be.”
My eyes stay on the screen. The ship’s name. The dates. The route.
“But it’s specific. Too specific to be random.”
Mateo nods slowly. “Then someone really does know where she is.”
“Yes,” is all I manage.
“And they want you to know.”
That lands heavier than the message itself.
“Why?” he asks.
I don’t respond, pulling up Uberto’s contact, my thumb hovering over his name.
Mateo watches me. When I don’t say anything, he speaks again.
“Why stay anonymous? How do they know this much? And how did they get your email address?” His gaze sharpens. “This sounds like a trap.”
“It could be,” I agree, not knowing yet if this is hope or bait. “But I must check it out. If there’s even the slightest chance of getting Ella back, I have to take it.”
Mateo exhales. “How would she even get onto a cruise ship? Where did she get the money?”
He pauses, thinking it through.
“Though it makes sense. There’s a hell of a lot less scrutiny at cruise terminals than at airports.”
“And who instructed her to get off in Halifax ahead of the scheduled end of the cruise?” I ask.
Mateo’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.
“The person who’s been helping her,” I say, already dialing Uberto’s number. “And this is our chance to find out exactly who.”
Uberto answers on the fifth ring, his voice rough with sleep. Unlike me, he was actually resting. Too bad. I pay him enough to be ready for anything, at any hour.
“I’m forwarding you an email I just received,” I say as soon as the call connects. “I need you to verify it. And I want to know who sent it.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I end the call and lower the phone.
October second. Nine days away.
Too long. Yet it’s the first lead that feels real. Solid. Something I can grip instead of chasing shadows.
For the first time since Lucerne, hope stirs. Sharp enough to cut me open if I’m wrong.
All I know is that I’m no longer in the dark.
And I will not let go of that.