When Shadows Speak
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The moment I wake, I know something’s wrong.
Waiting. Every time the gallery doors creak open, I brace for it. For Mr. Roselli to come storming back in because Luca didn't like the 'gesture.' Or worse—he recognized it and is coming for me. No warning. No mercy. Just game over.
It’s not the silence.
I’ve grown used to the stillness of my apartment before sunrise—before Daniel’s footsteps thump down the hall. No, it’s something else.
I sit up, heartbeat tight against my ribs.
My phone’s on the nightstand, screen blank. No new messages. No missed calls.
I always knew the past would catch up with me. You don’t walk away from a family like the Moretti’s.
Why, after all these years of pretending I was someone else, living someone else’s life—does it finally have to come crashing down?
Not in Chicago. No—it comes for me here. In Las Vegas. In the one place I thought I could build something for Daniel. Something real.
I get up and move through the apartment in bare feet, checking the locks out of habit. But the window near the kitchen? I pause. It’s shut—but not how I left it. The latch is twisted just slightly off-center.
Panic flares, cold and sharp.
I press my palm against the glass, anchoring myself to the here and now. But I’ve learned the hard way—when your gut starts screaming, you listen.
Because paranoia keeps you alive.
I move to the bookshelf and slide my hand along the spines until I find the cracked volume of Neruda’s poems—my signal. I tug it, and the hidden drawer clicks open.
Empty.
I return to my bedroom and check the drawer beneath my bed. The burner phone I haven’t touched in years… is missing.
The drawer is open half an inch. I never leave it like that.
I drop to my knees and yank it the rest of the way open. Nothing. The burner phone—the one only three people ever had the number to—is gone.
A chill crawls up my spine, slow and paralyzing. Someone was here.
Someone walked through Daniel’s room. Through my kitchen. Through the life I’ve tried so hard to build.
The air smells… wrong. Like stale cologne and meta. I swallow hard. My eyes dart to the photo frame by the window—shifted slightly, the corner smudged. Daniel’s face is no longer staring back at me, innocent and unaware.
They took it.
I force myself to scan the apartment again. The rug by the front door—off-center by two inches. The drawer with Daniel’s school supplies—half open. The curtain string out of place though no breeze passes through.
Whoever came here wasn’t just here for the burner phone.
They were sending me a message: I can reach you anywhere. I know who you love. I know where he sleeps.
I stagger to the wall, bracing my palm flat against the cold surface. My legs tremble, threatening to give. I want to scream, to tear the apartment apart. But I can’t. Daniel is still asleep. He can’t know.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut. I force myself to count to ten. Then twenty.
When I open my eyes again, the apartment feels foreign. Violated.
I can’t stay here.
The locks. The window. The signal drawer. My sanctuary, my safety net—breached.
Whoever it was… they were careful.
Professional.
I pull on a sweatshirt, hands shaking, and step toward the closet and move the box to find the small hole in the floorboard where I keep the emergency bag. It’s all still there—untouched—but the knowledge does nothing to slow my pulse.
Whoever came wasn’t looking for money.
My real phone buzzes. One notification. Unknown number. The message reads: You’ve always had an eye for beautiful things.
—
The room shrinks around me.
My hands tremble as I grip the phone tighter. I want to run. But I force myself to stand still.
Think. Guiliana.
They were inside your home. They walked through your life like it belonged to them.
I pace, calculating next steps. Do I call the police? What would I even say? That someone stole an untraceable phone and left a ghost text in its place?
I stop in front of the hallway mirror, my reflection staring back—tired, haunted, angry.
They want me to be afraid. That’s how this game starts.
But I’ve played it before.
I don’t grab my bag. Not yet.
First, I go to Daniel’s room.
The door creaks as I open it, my pulse drumming hard enough to burst. I hold my breath until I see him—still curled under his muscle car sheets, exactly where I left him.
But I can’t leave him here alone.
I cross the room and kneel by the bed, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. He stirs, blinking up at me, groggy. “Mom?”
I force a smile. “I need to get to the gallery early. Something came up. I’m going to ask Ms. Betty if you can stay with her for a little while until I get back.”
His brow furrows, eyes suddenly sharper. “Mom, I’m not a kid.”
My throat tightens. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand me?” My voice comes out harder than I intend—laced with a fear I can’t name.
His mouth opens to argue, but something in my face stops him. He nods instead. Silent. Obedient. My brave boy.
I kiss his forehead, holding it there for a moment longer than I should.
Then I grab my bag and phone.
Within minutes, I’m walking Daniel across the hall to Ms. Betty’s apartment. He’s clutching his backpack and yawning. I knock softly. Betty answers in her robe, eyes widening when she sees my face.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I need you to do something for me.”
I crouch beside Daniel, brushing his cheek. “You’re staying here today. No school. No going outside. Not until I come back.”
He scowls. “But why—”
I press a finger to his lips. “Because I said so. Please, just do this for me.”
To Betty, I hand a small burner phone from my coat pocket. “If you don’t hear from me by the end of the day, call this number. Ask for Jack. Don’t tell him anything else. Just say my name. He’ll know what to do.”
Betty blinks at the phone. “Is this—?”
“Yes,” I cut in. “And whatever you do, don’t go near my apartment. Not for any reason. Promise me.”
Her face pales. She nods slowly, gripping the phone. She’s the only one who knows the truth. And I pray to God she never has to use it.
—
The gallery is quiet when I arrive.
Too quiet.
It’s early—before staff hours—but the silence feels loaded. Like the walls are listening. I step inside with my key card and wait for the soft beep that confirms access, then lock the door behind me.
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?
Is it a reminder that he can reach me anywhere—any time.
I grip the nearest sculpture base, bracing myself as my legs begin to shake.
Footsteps echo from the mezzanine above. Slow. Measured. Coming closer.
And then—his voice.