The Beretti of His Dreams

6. Cracks in the Foundation

Cracks in the Foundation

Nichole

Everything feels off.

The world hasn’t changed—the city still moves, people still go about their lives, and the sun still rises.

But for me? Everything is different.

I grip my coffee cup a little too tightly, staring out of the café window as the city hums around me. The warm ceramic does nothing to ease the cold twisting in my stomach. The funeral, Antonio’s words, the truth about who I am—it’s all still circling in my head, refusing to settle.

I try to push it away.

I tell myself that I’m the same person I was yesterday.

That I haven’t changed.

But I have.

And I don’t know how to go back.

A sharp beep pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance down at my phone. A text from Valentina.

Brunch today? You need a distraction, babe.

I exhale slowly, forcing my fingers to unclench. Right. A distraction.

I type back quickly, keeping it simple. Yeah. I’ll meet you at our spot.

If nothing else, I can pretend things are normal.

Even if I know they aren’t.

I check my phone again.

Still nothing.

The café is crowded, the sound of clinking glasses and hushed conversation filling the space, but I can’t focus on any of it.

Valentina was supposed to be here by now.

I scroll through our texts, rereading our last exchange. She confirmed. She was coming.

I type quickly. Where are you?

The message delivers, but no read receipt.

I shift in my seat, glancing toward the entrance. Every time the door opens, my heart gives a small jump—but it’s never her.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling presses against my chest.

Valentina is never late.

I tap her contact, pressing the phone to my ear. One ring. Two. Three. Then—voicemail.

I hang up. Dial again. Same thing.

This time, the uneasy feeling doesn’t fade.

Something’s wrong.

I don’t know how I know, but I do.

I tell myself not to panic.

People miss plans all the time. Maybe she overslept. Maybe she got caught up in something.

But Valentina isn’t people. She doesn’t forget things like this.

I refresh my messages. Still nothing.

My fingers tighten around my phone as I open our shared location. It’s a habit, something we set up a long time ago, mostly as a joke.

Just in case one of us got kidnapped, Valentina had laughed.

But when the screen loads, a hollow weight settles in my chest.

Location unavailable.

I stare at the words, my pulse skipping.

Valentina’s phone is off.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to take a slow breath. That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe her battery died. Maybe she turned it off—but she never does.

Another wave of unease rolls through me.

I hit dial again, pressing the phone to my ear. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

My stomach twists. This isn’t normal.

I try again and again.

The dial tone stretches, too long, too empty, before going to voicemail.

I grip my phone tighter, my breath coming uneven. Valentina never turns off her phone. Even when she’s mad, even when she needs space—she always answers me.

I text her. Val, where are you? Call me.

Nothing.

The café feels too loud now. Too normal.

I force myself to think. Where would she be? Who would she be with?

I scroll to our last messages. Brunch. Here. She was coming—so what stopped her?

I swallow, my pulse hammering in my ears. I need to find her.

I shove my phone into my bag and push away from the table, stepping onto the busy street. The city moves around me like nothing is wrong. But something is wrong.

I call her again as I walk, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.

Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

Dammit.

I scroll through my contacts, my mind racing. Where would she go?

Her apartment. That’s the obvious first step.

I lift my hand to flag a taxi, barely waiting for the car to pull over before sliding inside.

I quickly rattle off Valentina's address.

The driver nods, pulling into traffic.

I sit back, exhaling slowly, but my hands won’t stop shaking.

Something is wrong.

I just don’t know what yet.

I step out of the taxi, barely waiting for it to stop before shutting the door behind me.

The building is the same as always—tall, sleek, the kind of place that always feels too quiet. But today, that silence feels suffocating.

I push through the lobby doors, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The receptionist barely looks up. She knows me—I’ve been here enough times.

I take the elevator up to Valentina’s floor, my fingers curled tightly around my bag strap. With every passing second, my pulse picks up speed.

By the time I reach her door, my breath is uneven.

I knock once.

No answer.

I knock again, harder. “Val? It’s me.”

Nothing.

I press my ear to the door, listening. No movement. No music. Nothing.

I swallow hard. She should be here.

I try the handle—locked.

Panic twists inside me. I pull out my phone, ready to call her again, ready to demand answers from thin air—

And then, the neighbor’s door creaks open.

An older woman peeks out, eyes narrowing slightly. “You looking for your friend?”

I turn sharply. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

The woman frowns. “Not since yesterday. Seemed like she was in a hurry, though.”

I grip my phone tighter. “Did she say anything? Where she was going?”

She shakes her head. “No, sweetheart. But…” She hesitates, lips pressing together. “Her door was open last night. I noticed when I walked past. Thought it was strange.”

My stomach drops.

Open?

That’s not like Valentina. Not at all.

I take a step back, my thoughts spiraling.

Something isn’t right.

Something is very wrong.

My hand tightens around my phone.

Valentina’s door was open last night.

I replay the neighbor’s words, my stomach twisting. That doesn’t happen. She’s careful—always double-checking locks, always making sure everything is secure.

And now she’s gone.

I don’t think. I act.

I step up to the door and press my fingers against the keypad. The code.

I hesitate only for a second before typing it in.

Beep. Beep. Click.

The lock disengages.

I push the door open, stepping inside.

And the second I do—my breath catches.

The living room is neat, almost too neat. Like someone cleaned up after themselves. But on the coffee table, her purse is still there, her keys sitting beside it.

My chest tightens.

If she left, why didn’t she take them?

I move deeper inside, my steps slow, careful.

The air is thick—stale, like no one’s been breathing it in for hours.

“Val?” My voice is barely above a whisper.

No answer.

I walk toward her bedroom. The bed is unmade, her nightstand lamp still on.

I swallow hard. Something happened here.