1. The Search Begins
The Search Begins
Damian
The cold splash of water against my face jolts me fully awake. I grip the edge of the sink, my reflection staring back at me in the mirror—sharp eyes, tension in my jaw, exhaustion creeping beneath my skin. But there’s no time for fatigue. I have a name.
Valentina.
Nichole told me to find her. Not a vague memory, not a fleeting thought—a direct instruction from the dream. That means something. It has to.
I grab a towel and dry my face, my mind already working through the next steps. Who is she? Where can I find her? The name isn’t familiar in any circles I run in, but that doesn’t mean much. People have a way of hiding in plain sight.
I move through the bedroom, pulling on a crisp black shirt and fastening the buttons with steady precision. The first step is information. Find out who Valentina is. Find out where she is. And then?
I’ll make her talk.
I roll my sleeves up to my elbows, slipping on my watch before grabbing my jacket. My movements are calculated, efficient—my focus narrowed. No more wasted time.
This isn’t about what ifs anymore. It’s about finding her. And it starts now.
The city is already awake by the time I step outside, the distant hum of early-morning traffic filling the air. A low, gray sky hangs overhead, the kind that stretches endlessly without a hint of sunlight breaking through. Fitting.
I slide into the back seat of my car, the leather cool against my palms as I pull out my phone.
I read the text from my sister Alessandra, letting me know she made it safely to America.
Good. My men are already in motion—I made the call the second I left my room.
Within the hour, I’ll have everything I need on Valentina.
Who she is. Where she is. What she knows.
I lean back, tapping my fingers against my knee as the car pulls into traffic. The city blurs past—towering glass buildings, narrow streets that weave through the heart of old neighborhoods, a blend of power and ruin. Everything moves forward at a relentless pace, and I refuse to be left behind.
A name isn’t enough. I need more.
I pull up my contacts and dial. A few rings later, a voice answers, rough with sleep but sharp underneath.
“What do you need?”
I don’t waste time. “I need a location on someone. Name’s Valentina.”
A pause. Then, the sound of keys clacking in the background. “Any last name?”
“No.”
“That’ll make it harder.” A sigh. “Give me an hour.”
“You have thirty minutes.” I end the call before he can argue.
There’s no patience left in me. Not when I’m this close to something real.
Time drags.
I check my watch, irritation simmering beneath my skin.
Thirty-five minutes have passed since I made the call—five minutes longer than the deadline I set.
I should call back, demand answers. Instead, I force myself to wait.
A show of impatience won’t speed up the process.
People work faster when they fear the consequences of failure.
The phone vibrates in my hand. Finally.
I answer without a greeting. “Talk.”
A pause. Then, “I’ve got nothing.”
I go still. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Exactly that.” His voice is edged with frustration, but not at me—at the lack of information.
“Valentina’s a common enough name, but if you’re looking for someone specific, she’s either keeping a low profile or not in any of our usual databases.
No records. No criminal ties. No red flags. Either she’s clean, or she’s a ghost.”
My grip tightens around the phone. That’s impossible. People don’t just exist without leaving a trail. If Valentina was close to Nichole, she had to be someone. Had to be somewhere.
“Keep looking,” I order, my tone sharp. “Find me something.”
Another pause. “I’ll need more than just a first name. Anything else?”
A muscle ticks in my jaw. I have nothing else to give him. No last name. No location. No context beyond what Nichole said in the dream.
I inhale slowly, keeping my voice measured. “I’ll get back to you.”
I hang up and stare at the screen. The lead isn’t dead, but it’s buried deep, and digging her out won’t be easy.
Fine. I like a challenge.
I pocket my phone and step out of the car, rolling my shoulders to shake off the frustration. A dead end doesn’t mean the lead is gone—it just means I need to approach it differently.
Valentina might not be in any obvious records, but that doesn’t mean she’s invisible. It just means I haven’t found the right trail yet. People leave traces—bank records, work connections, social circles. If she’s out there, I’ll find her.
I walk into a quiet café on the edge of the city, a place I know well. Low lights, dark wood, the faint aroma of espresso clinging to the air. It’s not the kind of place that draws attention, which is exactly why I chose it.
Behind the counter, an older man glances up, his gaze sharp despite the relaxed set of his shoulders. Marco. He’s been running this place for years, but that’s not what makes him valuable. He knows people.
I take a seat at the bar, and he wordlessly sets a coffee in front of me. No questions, no pleasantries. Just silence and expectation.
After a moment, he finally speaks. “What do you need?”
I take a slow sip, then set the cup down. “A name. Valentina.”
He frowns slightly, thinking. “That’s a common one.”
I nod. “She’s important.”
He wipes down the counter, considering. “You have anything else on her? Last name? Where she might be?”
I shake my head. “Just Valentina.”
A low hum of thought, then a sigh. “That’s not much to go on.”
I exhale through my nose, barely masking my impatience. “You know how this works. People talk. They leave clues. Someone’s bound to know her.”
Marco studies me for a beat, then nods. “I’ll ask around.”
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I leave the café, stepping onto the damp pavement as the city moves around me. The morning rush is in full swing—businessmen glued to their phones, taxis darting through tight spaces, the distant wail of a siren echoing between towering buildings. All of it noise. Distraction.
But my mind stays locked on the only thing that matters. Finding her.
Patience isn’t my strongest trait, but I know how to play the long game. Marco will ask around, and if Valentina is as ordinary as she seems, she’ll turn up soon enough. For now, there’s nothing more to do but wait.
I slide into my car, the leather creaking as I settle in. The moment I shut the door, my phone buzzes. A different number. Not Marco.
I answer. “Talk.”
A chuckle on the other end. “Always so charming.”
I recognize the voice instantly—Isaac. An informant. Opportunistic. Unreliable. But sometimes, useful.
“What do you want?” I ask, cutting straight to it.
“You’re looking for someone,” he muses, his voice dripping with amusement. “Word travels fast.”
I exhale sharply. “You have a lead or just wasting my time?”
A pause. Then, “Might have a last name for your Valentina.”
I sit up straighter, pulse steady, controlled. “Where?”
“Meet me first.”
Of course. He always makes it a game.
I glance at the time. I don’t like detours, but if this puts me one step closer, I’ll play along. For now.
“Send me the location,” I say.
The call ends. A second later, a text pings through.
I pull out of the parking lot and merge into traffic. The waiting game is over. Time to move.
The location Isaac sends is exactly what I expect—a neutral spot, just public enough to keep things civil, just private enough for business. A bar tucked into the edge of the city, where people come to talk, to trade, to make things disappear.
I step inside, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and burnt wood. Low-lit chandeliers cast flickering shadows across worn leather booths, the hum of conversation blending into the faint bass thrum of music. It’s early, too early for the usual crowd, which is why Isaac picked it.
He’s already waiting, perched at a table near the back, one arm draped over the chair, a smirk curving his lips as I approach. “Right on time,” he muses, tipping his drink in greeting.
I take the seat across from him without a word.
Isaac chuckles, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You really don’t do small talk, do you?”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “The name, Isaac.”
He clicks his tongue, setting his drink down. “Valentina Moretti.”
The last name lands like a slow, measured weight in my mind. Unfamiliar, but expected. If she were someone well-known, I wouldn’t have needed him in the first place.
I file the name away. “Where is she?”
Isaac exhales a low laugh. “See, that’s the thing. Names are free. Locations?” He tilts his head. “That costs.”
Of course.
I sit back, studying him, the amusement dancing in his eyes, the way he’s already anticipating the negotiation. He thinks he has leverage.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to creep in. Then, I smile. Just enough to remind him who he’s dealing with.
His fingers tap against his glass, and finally, he exhales. “Relax, it’s not like I’m asking for a pound of flesh,” he mutters. “Just a favor. Something easy.”
I arch a brow, waiting.
“There’s a guy,” he continues, voice lowering. “Nothing major, just a… business matter. Needs a little pressure to see things my way.”
I glance at him, unimpressed. “Handle it yourself.”
He grins. “Come on, Damian. It’s a nudge. A reminder. No blood, just a little… persuasion.”
I roll my jaw. A waste of my time. But if it gets me closer to Valentina, I’ll play along. For now.
I stand. “Send me the details.”
Isaac lifts his glass. “Pleasure doing business.”
I walk out without another word, my mind already shifting to the next move. A small detour. Then, I find her.
The moment I step outside, the air feels heavier. The weight of wasted time pressing against my shoulders. I don’t like detours. I don’t like playing middleman for men like Isaac. But I also don’t like dead ends.
I slide into my car, gripping the steering wheel as my phone vibrates with the incoming details. The favor. A name, an address, a brief instruction: "Just a conversation. Nothing more."
I don’t believe that for a second.
The engine hums as I pull out onto the road, weaving through the city streets. I don’t allow my mind to drift too far ahead. Find the guy. Handle it. Get what I need. That’s all that matters right now.
At the stoplight, I feel it before I see it. The unmistakable weight of eyes on me. A second too long. A little too focused.
I glance at the rearview mirror.
Two cars back. Black sedan. Tinted windows. Not an accident.
I exhale slowly. Someone’s watching me.
Not unusual. But this? This isn’t random.
I flex my fingers against the wheel, my pulse steady. No sudden moves. If I push too hard, they’ll know I’ve seen them. If they’re just watching, I’ll let them keep watching. For now.
The light turns green. I drive. They follow.
Fine. Let’s see where this leads.