The Venetian Legacy

Sofia Costa Book 4

By Georgia Wagner

Prologue

Professor Marco Bellanti paused, one hand curled around the stolen brass key. An ancient clock in the corridor outside Biblioteca San Teodoro's western wing clicked to three in the morning.

Venice slept outside these walls, her canals empty of daytime voices, the only sounds the gentle lap of water against weathered stone and the occasional call of a night bird. Inside, dust hung suspended in stale air, visible in the narrow beam of Marco’s penlight as he eased the door closed behind him.

The lock engaged with a soft click. Bellanti winced, pressing his back against the door, the coolness of carved wood seeping through his thin linen jacket. At fifty-six, he was too old for this sort of clandestine adventure, too established in his position at the university to risk everything on a hunch.

And yet.

His fingers sought and found the small notebook in his pocket. Three names written there in his academic script. Three deaths officially ruled as accidents, all from history’s pages. A pattern that had nagged at his historian's mind for months now.

"History doesn't stay buried," he whispered to himself.

Bellanti pushed away from the door, directing his penlight toward the cramped corridor ahead. The beam caught elaborate ceiling frescoes, their colors dulled by time and neglect, their subjects—angels and saints and maritime glories—watching his trespass with painted eyes.

The air held the musty perfume of ancient paper, leather bindings, and the peculiar mineral tang of Venetian damp that penetrated even here, in a wing sealed off from public access for decades.

The Biblioteca San Teodoro's restricted archives lay at the end of the corridor.

The soles of his shoes whispered against marble floors. Sweat gathered at his temples despite the cool night air.

The smell of saltwater and stone grew stronger, more pronounced, as if the very building remembered its centuries of standing watch over the Grand Canal.

His penlight caught the edge of a doorframe. The door itself was surprisingly plain by Venetian standards, its only ornamentation a brass plate bearing a single word: RISERVATO. Reserved. Forbidden.

Bellanti's hand trembled slightly as he inserted a second key—smaller, silver, acquired through means he preferred not to dwell on—into the lock. The mechanism resisted briefly before yielding with a reluctant scrape of metal against metal.

"Forgive the intrusion," he murmured, an instinctive apology to the ghosts of librarians past.

The archive room beyond was smaller than he had expected, intimate almost, with a low ceiling and walls lined with cabinets. A single narrow window, shuttered against the night, admitted thin stripes of moonlight between slats. Bellanti closed the door carefully behind him, then allowed himself to scan the room more fully with his light.

The cabinets bore small brass plaques with dates and cryptic letter combinations. To one side stood a wooden table, its surface scarred by centuries of scholarly usage, surrounded by three high-backed chairs that might have been new when the Republic of Venice still ruled the seas.

Bellanti set his bag on the table, removing a pair of cotton gloves before approaching the cabinets. According to his source, what he was looking for would be found in section P, covering the period from 1960 to 1975—the height of Cold War tensions, when Venice had served as a convenient diplomatic point for East and West.

The cabinet labeled "P/1960–1975" stood in the far corner. Its wood had warped with age, forcing Bellanti to tug firmly before the drawer slid open with a protesting groan.

"There you are," he breathed, lifting the first ledger with reverent hands. "What secrets have you been keeping?"

He carried his find to the table, setting it down gently before returning for others that caught his eye. A folder marked "Morosini/Confidenziale." Another labeled simply "Operazione Laguna."

The ledgers contained mostly financial records—shipping manifests, cargo inventories, customs declarations. Ordinary business transactions, unremarkable except for their inclusion in this restricted section.

But Bellanti hadn't spent three decades studying the economic history of the Venetian Republic without learning to read between the lines. The patterns emerged slowly—discrepancies in declared values, shipments that appeared in one ledger but not in corresponding customs documents, vessels that changed names and ownership with suspicious frequency.

"Money laundering," he murmured, making meticulous notes. "But for whom?"

The folder marked "Morosini/Confidenziale" yielded little beyond vague diplomatic correspondence—dinner invitations, polite acknowledgments of gifts exchanged. The Morosini family had been among Venice's elite since the thirteenth century; their continued prominence in the post-war period was hardly surprising.

It was the folder labeled "Operazione Laguna" that made his pulse quicken. Inside lay photographs—grainy black-and-white images of men in suits standing beside the distinctive ironwork of Venetian balconies. Meeting on bridges. Exchanging briefcases beside gondolas.

The air in the small room seemed to grow colder. Bellanti glanced at his watch. He'd stayed too long, lost in the puzzle. Dawn would break soon, bringing with it the library's staff. He needed to replace the documents, leave everything as he'd found it.

As he gathered the papers, a sound froze him in place. Footsteps in the corridor outside. Then silence. Too sudden, too complete.

Bellanti held his breath. The footsteps had stopped directly outside the archive room.

Someone else was in the restricted wing, someone who had no reason to announce their presence at this hour.

With shaking hands, Bellanti slipped the photos back into the folder, replacing everything in the cabinet drawer. He considered his escape routes—only the door he'd entered through, leading back to the corridor where someone now waited. The window was too small, and a twenty-foot drop to the canal below made it a desperate last resort.

The silence stretched unnaturally. No creak of floorboards, no whisper of breath. Just the weight of someone's presence, patient and watchful.

Bellanti reached for his bag with exaggerated slowness, as if sudden movement might trigger this unseen threat.

He thought of his daughter in Rome, his ex-wife in Florence. The conference presentation he was scheduled to deliver. The manuscript sitting half-finished on his desk at home.

The sound, when it finally came, was almost a relief after the tension of silence. The door handle turned, a deliberate motion that seemed to take forever.

Bellanti squared his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height as the door swung open. The figure who entered was backlit by the faint glow from the corridor, features indistinguishable in the shadows.

Recognition spread like cold water down Bellanti's spine. His mouth opened, a single word forming on his lips.

The last thing Marco Bellanti saw was a quick metallic gleam in the darkness, and then nothing at all.

Chapter 1

The darkness of the audio lab wrapped around Sofia Costa, the only illumination coming from the blue glow of monitor screens that cast her face in sharp relief. For the hundredth time—perhaps the thousandth—she adjusted the headphones pressed against her ears. The digital counter ticked upward as her mother's voice, preserved like an insect in amber, filled her ears once more.

"The weather is perfect today," her mother said, the gentle ripple of Mediterranean waves audible beneath her words. Sofia closed her storm-gray eyes for a moment, allowing the familiar cadence to wash over her. Those eyes had seen too much in her twenty-eight years—had analyzed, deconstructed, observed. Now they were squeezed shut against a different kind of pain.

The Venetian research facility, tucked away in an ancient building, was cutting-edge despite appearances. She’d called in a favor from an old Interpol contact who owed her. Sofia's tall, lean frame remained perfectly still as she opened her eyes and the recording continued, only her hand moving to make a note in the worn notebook beside her. The yellow pencil she typically kept tucked behind her ear now scratched softly against paper.

"We're near Capri," her mother continued. "Remember when we came here for your sixteenth birthday? How you insisted on swimming to that little cave even though the tour guide said the currents were too strong?"

Sofia reached for her water bottle, unscrewing the cap. "Naturalmente, mamma," she whispered to the empty room. "È sempre stato così."

The recording continued, a time capsule from three years ago that Sofia had excavated from the recovered memory card of her mother's waterlogged phone. Three years spent chasing shadows and rumors, following the trail of her parents' deaths across continents.

"Anyway, I should go," her mother said. "Your father wants lunch and—"

Sofia's body tensed, already anticipating what came next, despite having heard it countless times before. The shift in tone, the sudden interruption—

Her mother's voice returned, urgent, stripped of its casual warmth. "Sofia, something's happening. There's—"

A crash in the background. Glass breaking. Sofia's pencil pressed harder against the paper, leaving an indentation that would be visible on several pages beneath.

"Oh God, they're on the boat. Your father is—" Muffled shouting filled the background, the words indistinct but the panic unmistakable. "They found us," her mother whispered frantically.

Another crash, closer to the recording device. Sofia knew from her analysis that this was likely a cabin door being forced open. The timeline she'd constructed suggested approximately seventeen seconds between the first disturbance and this moment.

"They're coming." Her mother's voice dropped even lower. "I don't have time. Look for—"

And then, nothing. The recording ended with the same abrupt finality it always did, leaving Sofia in silence save for the soft hum of the equipment and the pounding of her own heart.

"Merda," she cursed softly in Italian, rewinding the file. Her fingers trembled—the only outward sign of the emotions churning beneath her controlled exterior.

She played it again. Again, the casual conversation. Again, the reminiscence about Capri. Again, the sudden intrusion and her mother's fear. Again, the crucial final words cut short.

"Look for—" What? What had her mother been trying to tell her?

Sofia pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture she'd adopted from her mentor at Interpol. Nuno had always done this when contemplating complex linguistic patterns, and she'd unconsciously absorbed the habit. She could almost hear his voice now: "Focus on what you know, not what you wish to know."

What she knew: Her parents had been on their yacht near Capri. Something—or someone—had interrupted them. Violence had ensued. The official reports from three separate countries had ruled it an accident. The boat had been found at the bottom of the sea.

What she didn't know: Who "they" were. What her mother had wanted her to look for.

Sofia stood, allowing the headphones to drop to the desk. She paced the small room, moving with natural grace despite her injuries. The yellow pencil, momentarily abandoned, now found its way back behind her ear as she murmured to herself.

"Seguridad." Spanish.

"Bezopasnost." Russian.

"Ān quán." Mandarin.

The ritual calmed her, as it always did, giving her mind something to anchor to while she processed what she'd heard. Language had always been her refuge, her tool, her weapon.

She returned to the computer, finger hovering over the replay button. This time, she would listen differently—not to her mother's words but to the background. The splash of water. The distant sounds on the boat.

Sofia settled the headphones back over her ears, adjusting the audio isolation. As a forensic polyglot, she had been trained to hear what others missed, to detect the slightest variations in accent and speech patterns. Those skills had made her the best interrogator Interpol had ever seen. Now, they would serve a more personal purpose.

"I will find out what happened to you," she promised the empty air.

The truth mattered more than any of it.

Sofia's closed the original audio file and opened a new one. Julian Varga's AI enhancement team had sent the newest version, the email marked urgent. Outside, Venice wept against the windows, rain pattering insistently.

She’d come to Venice on work, but it would be an understatement to say she was distracted.

She initiated the new file, watching as wavelengths danced across the monitor. Julian's team had isolated specific patterns, enhancing what had previously been unintelligible background noise.

"Starting isolation sequence," Sofia murmured to herself in English, then switched to Portuguese as she adjusted parameters. "Filtragem em progresso."

The recording began again, but this time, filtered differently. Her mother's voice remained, but now sounded distant, as if heard from across a room. Other sounds emerged—footsteps, the creak of the yacht's wooden interior, and voices, previously indistinguishable from the ambient noise.

Sofia closed her eyes again, allowing her ears to do what they'd been trained for. Eight languages at her command, and countless regional dialects—the ability to parse meaning from fragments of speech.

Then she heard it.

Her father's voice, suddenly clear in the chaos, emerged: "Valezzi! She's here..."

Sofia's eyes snapped open. She replayed the segment.

"Valezzi! She's here..."

Three words. After three years of searching, three words that changed everything.

She played it again. And again. Five times, ten times, listening to those precious seconds until she was certain she'd heard correctly. Her father's voice—the distinctive way he emphasized the first syllable of the name—was unmistakable.

Sofia's heart hammered against her bruised ribs.

Valezzi.

Who the hell was Valezzi? She’d dug for years into everyone related to the accident. Nothing.

But now a thread to pull on. Valezzi. Valezzi.

She turned to her computer, typing away.

The search engine returned a depressing cascade of irrelevant results. Valezzi Furniture in Milan. Valezzi Vineyard in Tuscany. A football player from the 1960s. A small village in the mountains. Nothing that was connected to her parents or their circles.

Sofia switched databases, accessing the network she'd maintained since leaving Interpol. Interpol's own records—accessed through backdoor channels Nuno pretended not to know about—yielded nothing on the name. The Italian police database was equally unhelpful. The maritime accident report mentioned no Valezzi.

"Come on," she whispered, typing with more urgency. Her searches grew more specific: "Valezzi yacht Mediterranean," "Valezzi criminal enterprise," "Valezzi + Costa family."

Nothing concrete.

She frowned, tapping her index finger against her lower lip, a habit from childhood. The rain intensified outside, drumming against the ancient windowpanes.

Sofia leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. A name. A lead. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Both her parents were dead… And sometimes she wondered if she would ever find out what had happened to them.

“Valezzi,” she said more emphatically. She had a lead. But this was just the start. She’d have to text Nuno. He’d be able to help her narrow it down.

But as she reached for her phone, the device was already vibrating against the metal desk. Sofia glanced at the screen and swore softly in Portuguese. Three missed calls from Contessa Adriana Morosini, and now a fourth incoming. She'd been so absorbed in the recording that she'd missed them all.

"Merda," she muttered, snatching up the phone. The time display made her stomach drop. 7:42 PM. The symposium had started at seven.

"Contessa," Sofia answered, injecting warmth into her voice despite the tension building in her body. "Mi dispiace—"

"Ms. Costa." The contessa's voice was cold, stretched thin with displeasure. "The Morosini Foundation is paying you rather handsomely to stand by as we authenticate our documents at tonight's symposium. Yet here we are, nearly an hour into the event, and you are conspicuously absent."

Sofia was already on her feet, shoving her notebook and pencil into her leather satchel. "An unexpected development in my research delayed me. I'm leaving now—fifteen minutes, twenty at most."

"The delegation from the Vatican Archives will not wait indefinitely." The words carried the weight of nobility. "Neither will the curators from the Bibliothèque Nationale. This is the first time in history these documents have been brought together for public examination."

Sofia wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear as she powered down the equipment. "I understand the significance, Contessa. The authentication will proceed as planned."

"See that it does." The line went dead.

Sofia slipped the phone into her pocket and stared at the dark computer screen where the name "Valezzi" had glowed moments before. The lead would have to wait. She'd spent months cultivating her relationship with the Morosini family, one of Venice's oldest noble houses. Their archives contained documents dating back to the thirteenth century.

She grabbed her coat and hurried down the steep staircase of the research facility, her footsteps echoing against stone worn smooth by centuries of use.

Chapter 2

The rain had transformed Venice into a city of mirrors, dark water reflecting in wavering, dreamlike distortions. Sofia's heeled boots clicked against wet cobblestones as she navigated the winding passages leading to the Palazzo D'Inverno, her satchel clutched protectively under her coat.

Each breath emerged as a small cloud in the chilly evening air, mingling with the scents of canal water, damp stone, and the faint decay that permeated the oldest corners of the floating city. She knew she was late—unforgivably so in the rarefied world of academic symposia and aristocratic patronage. The knowledge prickled at her professional pride.

The palazzo loomed before her, a testament to faded glory. Once the winter residence of Venetian nobility, its façade now wore centuries of weathering. Flaking paint revealed layers of previous colors—dusty rose giving way to ochre, cream, the original terracotta—a record of Venetian history in pigment and plaster. Stone angels with eroded faces guarded balconies where moss crept between carved balusters. Even in decline, the building commanded reverence, its windows glowing amber against the deepening night.

Sofia paused at the entrance, brushing raindrops from her coat. She centered herself with her familiar ritual, whispering under her breath: " Seguridad. Bezopasnost. Ān quán."

The vast entry hall echoed with her footsteps, marble floors amplifying each sound as liveried attendants directed guests with discreet gestures. Old money and older knowledge mingled in the air—the subtle perfumes of aristocracy blending with the scholarly scent of paper and binding glue. Sofia followed the flow toward double doors at the far end, where golden light spilled into the corridor and the murmur of voices rose and fell like the tide.

"Your invitation, signora?" A young man in Morosini livery—midnight blue with silver piping—extended his white-gloved hand.

Sofia produced her credentials. "Sofia Costa. Security specialist. The contessa is expecting me."

Recognition flickered across his face. "Ah, Ms. Costa. Si, the contessa mentioned you would be... arriving." The pause before the final word spoke volumes—conveying that her tardiness had been noted and discussed.

Sofia smiled, warm and disarming. "Grazie," she replied with exactly the right intonation of Venetian dialect—not the tourist Italian taught in language schools but the true cadence of the canals. The tone wasn't lost on the attendant, whose posture relaxed a fraction.

"Prego," he returned, stepping aside. The doors opened.

The Sala Maggiore of Palazzo D'Inverno unfolded before her like a faded Renaissance painting come reluctantly to life. Crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light over gilt-framed portraits and antique mirrors, their reflections multiplying the assembly into infinity. Beneath a ceiling adorned with crumbling frescos of naval victories, Venice's present power brokers mingled with European academic royalty.

Sofia's trained eyes scanned the room in seconds: Representatives from the Vatican Archives clustered near a display case, their distinctive rings catching the light as they gestured; curators from the Bibliothèque Nationale were identifiable by their characteristically animated conversation style; German historians, British archivists, and Italian nobility all orbited the central display where, presumably, the Morosini documents lay under museum-grade glass.

And there, at the center of it all, stood Contessa Adriana Morosini, imperious in burgundy silk. Her silver hair was swept into an immaculate chignon that drew attention to cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. At seventy-two, she remained formidable—her family's lineage traced to doges and admirals who had once commanded the Mediterranean.

Sofia crossed the room with long strides, shoulders back, chin lifted—projecting confidence while her mind was elsewhere. The gathering hummed with multilingual conversation, accents and dialects Sofia parsed without conscious effort. Italian dominated, naturally, but French, German, and English wove through, occasionally punctuated by Latin phrases—the scholarly shorthand that transcended national boundaries.

The contessa saw her approach, dark eyes narrowing slightly before her features composed themselves into a mask of welcome.

"Ms. Costa," she said, extending a hand adorned with an emerald ring—not for Sofia to shake but merely to touch in the old-world manner. "How kind of you to join us."

"Contessa." Sofia brushed fingertips against the offered hand, inclining her head. "Please accept my deepest apologies for the delay. A development in my research could not be postponed."

The older woman's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "One hopes this... development... was worth keeping the cardinal's envoy waiting." She gestured toward a thin man in clerical black, who studied Sofia with undisguised suspicion. "Father Marconi has expressed particular interest in your authentication methods."

Translation: The Vatican representative doubts your credentials and my judgment in hiring you.

"I look forward to discussing them," Sofia replied smoothly, addressing the priest directly in flawless ecclesiastical Latin—the kind used in Vatican correspondence rather than the classical form preferred in academic circles. "It's an honor to examine documents of such historical significance."

The priest's eyebrows rose, the shift in his expression conveying surprise at her linguistic aptitude. "You've studied at the Holy See?"

"Briefly, Father. The Vatican Archives remain unmatched. I'm particularly impressed by the restoration work on the Borgia correspondence." A small, calculated gambit—mentioning documents few outside the inner circles of Vatican scholarship would know.

It landed as intended. Father Marconi's demeanor warmed by degrees. "Perhaps we might discuss the aragonite preservation techniques later."

The contessa observed this exchange with a hint of approval before turning to guide Sofia toward the central display. "The documents await your assessment, Ms. Costa. We've arranged the authentication equipment as you specified."

Under the watchful eyes of Europe's intellectual elite, Sofia approached the display case. Her reflection ghosted across the glass, fracturing over the yellowed parchments within. The Morosini Papers—never before displayed publicly, rumored for generations but confirmed only months ago when renovation work in the palazzo's east wing had revealed a hidden compartment behind a false wall.

According to preliminary examination, they detailed the family's clandestine Cold War activities—a noble house playing both sides of the Iron Curtain, leveraging longstanding connections and Venetian diplomatic traditions. If authentic, they would rewrite portions of post-war European history.

Sofia set her satchel on the examination table next to the display, extracting cotton gloves and specialized equipment.

In her job as a luxury travel security consultant, Sofia didn’t often get the opportunity to pull on other skills she’d developed while working for Interpol’s linguistic analysis division. So when this job had come across her desk, with multiple references, she simply hadn’t been able to pass it up.

"The collection includes correspondence from 1962 through 1974," the contessa explained to the assembled scholars. "Letters, financial records, and diplomatic communiqués that remained sealed until our recent discovery."

Sofia donned her gloves, gesturing toward the case. "With your permission, Contessa?"

At Adriana's nod, an attendant unlocked the display. The scent of aged paper and iron gall ink rose from inside. Sofia lifted the first document with reverent care, transferring it to the examination table.

As she bent to her work, her awareness remained split—part of her mind analyzing ink composition, paper aging, and handwriting patterns, while another part monitored the room. A forensic polyglot's greatest asset was not the languages themselves but the ability to listen while appearing not to—to notice interactions while maintaining focus on an apparent task.

The French delegation near the refreshment table discussed wine vintages in Bordeaux—simple enough. The British representatives debated Oxford commas with the dry humor typical of their circles. But behind her, two voices conversed in rapid Czech, assuming the obscure language provided privacy.

"Je stále problém?" Is it still a problem?

"On už ji varoval." He warned her already.

Sofia continued examining the document before her, her expression revealing nothing as her mind translated. The verb tense was significant—not "he will warn her" but "he warned her already." Past tense. Completed action. And the masculine pronoun—"on"—specific and singular.

The speakers moved away, their conversation shifting to English as they joined a larger group. Sofia filed the exchange away—data without context.

The door to the room opened, admitting a rush of cooler air and a harried-looking young woman whose rain-dampened clothes suggested she'd arrived without the benefit of transportation. Her appearance caused a ripple of attention, conversations pausing briefly before resuming with increased intensity.

"That's Bellanti's assistant," murmured a voice near Sofia's elbow. She turned to find Dr. Heinrich Weber, a Swiss document expert she'd worked with on a previous authentication in Geneva. "Marco was supposed to present the keynote on Cold War document verification methods."

Sofia nodded her thanks for the context, watching as the young woman approached the contessa with obvious trepidation. Their conversation was brief but charged, Adriana's posture stiffening visibly as she listened.

"If you'll excuse me," Sofia said to Weber, setting aside her examination tools. Something was off. The contessa had gone strangely still.

Sofia moved casually toward the contessa, timing her approach to coincide with the assistant's departure. Adriana's face had composed back into aristocratic impassivity, but Sofia's trained eye caught the micro-expressions betraying concern—the tension around the mouth, the infinitesimal narrowing of the eyes.

"Contessa," Sofia said quietly. "Is there a problem?”

Adriana glanced sharply at her, weighing options behind dark eyes. "Professor Bellanti," she said finally, "appears to have encountered a delay. He was scheduled to present findings on cross-referencing these documents with recently declassified NATO archives and to give the keynote."

Sofia waited, knowing there was more.

"His assistant reports that Marco hasn't been seen since yesterday evening. He missed his morning appointments and failed to return to his hotel last night." The contessa's voice remained steady, but Sofia detected the controlled alarm beneath. "Most unlike him. Marco is reliability personified."

"Perhaps he's simply caught up in research?" Sofia suggested.

"His absence is... inconvenient," Adriana replied, her gaze drifting to the display case

The careful neutrality of "inconvenient" spoke volumes. In Contessa Morosini's vocabulary, it ranked among the most damning of assessments.

"The symposium will continue," Adriana added, straightening almost imperceptibly. "The scheduled panels will proceed in modified form. Ms. Costa, I trust your analysis will be thorough despite these... disruptions."

"Of course, Contessa." Sofia inclined her head respectfully. "If there's anything I can do regarding Professor Bellanti—"

“Ah, well… now that you mention it. I don’t have anyone I can spare. And as the authentication was supposed to include his independent observations… I see no reason we can’t wait on that front.” She studied Sofia. “You once worked private security, yes?”

“Interpol.”

“Right. I remember. Well… Bellanti told me on a phone call yesterday that he intended to visit the Biblioteca San Teodoro last night. Something about cross-referencing our documents with their restricted archives." The Contessa's voice lowered slightly. "Perhaps you might... inquire? Discreetly, of course."

Sofia's pulse quickened. The Biblioteca San Teodoro—Venice's forgotten library, housing documents too sensitive or controversial for public consumption. A logical destination for a historian verifying Cold War records.

"I'd be happy to look into it," Sofia replied, choosing her words carefully. "Though I should note that my expertise is in document authentication rather than—"

"Finding missing academics?" Adriana's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Come now, Ms. Costa. We both know your background extends well beyond linguistic analysis. Your Interpol file makes for... illuminating reading."

Sofia kept her expression impassive, though inwardly she reassessed the contessa. Few civilians had access to personnel files from international law enforcement.

"I'll need contact information for his assistant," Sofia said simply.

"Already arranged." The contessa gestured to an attendant, who appeared with a small envelope. "Marco's office address, hotel information, and his assistant's details. The symposium runs through Saturday. I expect regular updates."

Sofia accepted the envelope, tucking it into her satchel. "And the authentication work?"

"Will proceed, naturally. But finding Professor Bellanti has become equally important." Adriana's voice dropped further. "Marco is not just a scholar, Ms. Costa. He's an old friend. His disappearance concerns me on a personal level."

For the first time since they'd met, Sofia glimpsed something genuine in the Contessa's features—a flicker of worry that transcended professional concerns.

"I understand." Sofia nodded. "I'll begin immediately."

The contessa stepped closer, her perfume—something expensive, with notes of amber and vetiver—enveloping Sofia in a cloud. "One more thing, Ms. Costa. Marco mentioned something... troubling in our last conversation. He believed he'd found connections between these documents and several historical deaths previously ruled as accidents."

Sofia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the palazzo's inadequate heating. "What kind of connections?"

"He didn't elaborate. Only that the findings disturbed him." Adriana's eyes held Sofia's, searching. "I dismissed it as academic paranoia. Now I wonder."

The timing was too perfect to be coincidence—Marco Bellanti researching suspicious deaths classified as accidents, and now missing himself. Just as Sofia's parents had been investigating something before their "accident."

"I'll find him," Sofia said with more certainty than she felt.

"Good." The contessa stood taller, her mask slipping back into place. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must inform our guests of the program changes."

Sofia watched her glide away, commanding attention without effort. The rain beat harder against the palazzo's windows, the sound amplified in the cavernous room.

Sofia withdrew from the salon, moving against the current of academics and aristocrats with purposeful strides.

In the grand entrance hall, she paused only long enough to pull on her coat. A young attendant approached with an umbrella, but Sofia waved him away. "Non preoccuparti," she said, her Venetian dialect perfect. "The rain doesn't bother me."

And with that, she strode out into the night in search of a missing historian who’d vanished while researching Cold War era secrets.

Chapter 3

Rainwater slid down the nape of Sofia's neck as she stood before the imposing façade of the Biblioteca San Teodoro, its marble columns and decorative cornices looming against the indigo Venetian night. Beside her, the missing professor’s assistant stood as if she had a rock in her shoe. Eliana Rossi shifted from foot to foot, the colorful beaded bracelet on her wrist rattling softly with each nervous movement. Both women stared at the heavy wooden doors, barred against the approaching midnight hour, and the single illuminated window where the night clerk was working.

"Are you certain he'd come here?" Sofia asked, her voice rising above the gentle patter of rain striking stone.

Eliana nodded, dark curls bouncing against her damp shoulders. "Professor Bellanti was obsessed with comparing the Morosini documents to something in the restricted collection. He mentioned it three times yesterday." Her fingers twisted the beaded bracelet anxiously. "He's never missed a lecture before. Never."

Unlike Venice's more flamboyant structures, San Teodoro made no concessions to beauty. Iron-barred windows were set in thick stone walls. Even the decorative elements—grim-faced cherubs and stern saints—seemed to warn rather than welcome.

"Come," Sofia said, squaring her shoulders. "We'll try the direct approach first."

She crossed the small courtyard, boots clicking on the slick cobblestones. Behind her, Eliana's lighter footfalls followed. The rain intensified, silver needles driving into the ground with growing insistence.

A weathered bronze bell hung beside the entrance, its surface patinated to the color of old bones. Sofia grasped the worn rope and pulled once, the dull tone reverberating through the empty courtyard like a forgotten prayer.

They waited as seconds stretched to minutes. Finally, a small viewing portal in the center of the door slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes set in a face creased by decades of scholarly displeasure.

"Chiuso," the night clerk announced flatly. Closed.

Sofia stepped closer, allowing the meager light from the man's lantern to illuminate her face. "Buonasera," she began. "We need to access the reference section. Professor Marco Bellanti's research. It's quite urgent."

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. "The biblioteca is closed until morning. Return at nine." His speech carried the unmistakable clipped consonants of native Venetian, but Sofia detected something else—a modification of vowel sounds that suggested origins in the northern lagoon islands.

"We understand the inconvenience," Sofia persisted. "But Professor Bellanti hasn't been seen since yesterday evening. Contessa Morosini is concerned."

At the mention of the contessa, the clerk's eyelid twitched.

"The rules cannot be bent, not even for nobility," he replied.

"When did you last see Professor Bellanti?" Sofia asked, changing tactics.

"I don't recall. Many scholars come and go. Return tomorrow. The director can assist you then."

"Wait," Sofia said, but the small door snapped shut with surprising force, the sound echoing in the empty courtyard.

Eliana made a sound of distress. "Now what?”

Sofia stepped back from the door, scanning the building. Her gaze tracked along the rain-slicked walls, past barred windows and drainage spouts, until she spotted what she was looking for—a smaller entrance half-hidden behind a stand of cypress trees, likely a service door for deliveries and staff.

"There," Sofia said, nodding toward the side of the building. "We'll try another approach."

Eliana followed her gaze, then glanced nervously back at the main entrance. "Breaking in? That's—that's illegal."

"Not breaking in," Sofia corrected smoothly. "Accessing through alternative means. The distinction matters in court." She offered a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Tell me, Eliana, when did you first notice changes in Professor Bellanti's behavior?"

The question, deliberately posed as they began walking toward the service entrance, distracted the younger woman from her legal concerns.

"About three weeks ago." Eliana's beaded bracelet clicked as she twisted it around her wrist. "After he began examining the Morosini documents. He became... obsessive. Working late, canceling lectures, taking notes in a private cipher I couldn't understand."

Sofia guided them along the building's perimeter, keeping close to the wall where shadow and rain provided additional concealment. "Did he mention anything specific? Names, dates, connections he found troubling?"

"He said—" Eliana lowered her voice, glancing around as if the stone cherubs might be listening. "He said he'd found something that would 'rewrite Venetian history.' Something about deaths that weren't accidents."

Sofia's steps faltered momentarily, her mind returning to her parents' supposed "accident" before she forced herself back to the present moment. "And yesterday? What exactly did he say before disappearing?"

"That he needed to check something in San Teodoro's restricted archives. That it couldn't wait." Eliana's voice cracked. "He seemed... afraid."

They reached the service entrance, a worn wooden door reinforced with iron bands that had oxidized to a dull red in the salt-laden Venetian air. No visible bell or knocker, just a simple lock that looked substantially less formidable than the main entrance's elaborate mechanisms.

"Non c'è tempo da perdere," Sofia quoted in perfect Italian, watching Eliana's reaction. There's no time to lose.

"I'm worried," Eliana admitted, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "You really think he might be in trouble?"

Sofia didn’t reply. No sense in adding fuel to the fire for the nervous woman. "Follow my lead. Stay close. Touch nothing unless I tell you it's safe." She moved toward the door, reaching into her satchel for the slim leather case that contained tools she'd promised Interpol she no longer possessed.

The rain intensified, sheets of water cascading from the eaves above as they slipped into deeper shadow, washing away footprints almost as quickly as they were made.

Perfect weather for hunting ghosts, Sofia thought as her fingers found the lock. Or for becoming one.

The service door yielded to Sofia's practiced touch, the hinges mercifully silent as she eased it open just wide enough for them to slip through. Darkness enveloped them immediately, centuries of dust muting even light itself. Sofia inhaled, taking in the library's distinctive scent: leather bindings, aging paper, the mineral tang of stone that had stood against Venetian waters for half a millennium.

"Stay close," Sofia murmured. She extracted her phone and activated its light at the lowest setting, sweeping the dim beam in a controlled arc ahead of them.

The corridor opened into a wider passage lined with towering wooden shelves that disappeared into darkness above. Sofia's light caught the gilded spines of classical volumes, leather covers worn smooth by centuries of scholarly hands.

"This way," Sofia whispered, recalling the building's layout from her preparatory research. All Venetian libraries shared certain architectural features, and San Teodoro was no exception. The restricted archives would be centrally located, typically behind additional security measures.

Eliana followed nervously. She flinched at a distant sound—the settling of old beams or the patter of rain against leaded windows—and whispered "protezione" in Italian under her breath, an unconscious prayer for protection.

Sofia noted the word choice—not a common Italian expression but specifically Sicilian, suggesting Eliana had either spent time in Sicily or had family connections there.

They passed silently through the main reading room, where massive oak tables were berthed like stranded ships in the darkness, surrounded by empty chairs pushed at haphazard angles.

A faraway sound reached her ears—the crackle of a radio transmission from somewhere ahead. Sofia froze, one hand extended to halt Eliana's forward momentum. She listened intently, trying to make sense of the garbled transmission.

"...quarto piano completo, passando al terzo..." Fourth floor complete, moving to the third.

"Down," Sofia whispered, pulling Eliana behind a massive reading desk as a beam of light swept toward their position. The assistant barely suppressed a sneeze as dust tickled her nose, and Sofia gently covered her mouth with one hand.

The guard's footsteps echoed, keys jingling at his belt. The beam of his flashlight cut across their hiding place, illuminating the desk's carved legs but missing the two women crouched in its shadow. Time stretched, elastic and unbearable, until finally the footsteps receded and the light disappeared down a branching corridor.

"That was close," Eliana breathed, her pulse visible in her throat.

Sofia released her, already mentally cataloging the library's security measures. The guard's patrol pattern suggested two-person coverage for a building this size, likely with overlapping routes. She'd spotted security cameras mounted above each archway, likely leaving blind spots in the reading alcoves and storage areas.

They moved forward again, Sofia leading them on a circuitous route that avoided the main areas where cameras would be placed.

"Remind me, what exactly was Professor Bellanti researching here?" Sofia asked as they navigated a passage between towering shelves. Any additional information Eliana had left out could prove to be valuable.

Eliana gestured with her hands, a typically Italian emphasis. "Cold War records, primarily. As I said, he became obsessed with connections between the Morosini family archives and some diplomatic records stored here. Something about… What was it? Oh yes, 'Operation Lagoon.'"

Sofia's mental catalog flickered—Operation Lagoon. She’d never heard of it.

"He was also researching noble family archives," Eliana continued, her voice dropping even lower. "Not just the Morosinis, but the Contarinis—"

A sound from ahead stopped them both—the distinctive metallic click of a door latch engaging.

Sofia turned off her phone light immediately, pulling Eliana into the shadow of a tall bookcase. They pressed themselves against the wood as footsteps approached, accompanied by the familiar sweep of a flashlight beam across the floor.

Sofia studied the advancing second guard through slitted eyes, reading his body language. The tightening of his shoulders, the pattern of his breathing, the way his free hand hovered near his side—all suggested tension beyond routine patrol anxiety. This man expected trouble.

The beam swept across the floor mere inches from Sofia's boots. She held her breath, feeling Eliana's fingers dig painfully into her forearm. The guard paused. Then, almost inexplicably, he turned and continued down the adjacent corridor, his footsteps fading into silence.

Sofia released a slow, controlled breath. She squeezed Eliana's trembling hand, a wordless reassurance.

"This professor of yours," Sofia murmured as they resumed their careful progress. "Did he mention anything specific about these families? Any connection between them and the Cold War records?"

"He said there was a pattern," Eliana whispered. "Three deaths across four decades, all ruled as accidents, all connected to something called 'Operazione Laguna.' He became obsessed with proving they weren't accidents at all."

"Almost there," Sofia commented as they approached a door at the corridor's end. The word "RISERVATO" was spelled out on a brass plate.

Eliana's anxiety was palpable in the confined space. "What if he's not here? What if this is all for nothing?"

Sofia wordlessly squeezed the younger woman's hand gently.

They reached the door, and Sofia examined it carefully. Fortunately, the mechanical lock remained functional.

Sofia extracted her tools again, selecting a tension wrench and a delicate pick. "Tell me more about the professor's research.”

"He believed these three deaths were connected to some kind of Cold War operation run through Venice," Eliana stammered, her eyes darting down the corridor. "Something that involved multiple noble families acting as intermediaries between East and West. He said the Morosini documents were just the tip of the iceberg."

The lock yielded with a soft click, and Sofia eased the door open, revealing a small antechamber beyond. Her phone's dim light illuminated a secondary room containing what must be San Teodoro's most precious and dangerous secrets.

"Reserved," Sofia translated needlessly, her hand hovering for a moment. Something prickled at the back of her neck—instinct rather than rational thought, a bodily knowledge that had saved her life more than once.

She stepped forward cautiously, Eliana close behind her, and pushed open the door to the inner chamber.

The room beyond was small, perhaps fifteen feet square, with a single wooden table at its center surrounded by three chairs. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, their contents hidden in shadow. The floor was laid with intricate mosaic tiles in Byzantine patterns—tiny tesserae of lapis, carnelian, and mother-of-pearl creating geometric designs.

And there, sprawled across that floor, lay the body of a man.

Professor Marco Bellanti lay face-up on the mosaic floor, arms outstretched as if reaching to the vaulted ceiling above. His white linen shirt bloomed with a dark stain that centered around the dagger buried to its hilt in his chest. Sofia noted a strangely shaped lion’s head on the hilt of the dagger. Blood had pooled beneath him, filling the grout lines between tiles and transforming the golden lion into a creature of rust and darkness.

Sofia felt her stomach tighten.

"Oh God," Eliana whispered, her voice strangled as she peered around Sofia's protective arm. "Is that—"

Sofia nodded grimly. "Professor Bellanti."

Eliana's body tensed, and Sofia recognized the signs of panic—the sharp intake of breath, the involuntary stiffening of muscles. She turned quickly, gripping the assistant's shoulders.

"Look at me," she commanded quietly, her gaze holding Eliana's with intensity. "Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

But it was too late. The horror of discovery crashed through Eliana's fragile composure. Her piercing scream shattered the library's centuries-old silence, echoing against vaulted ceilings and marble floors, a sound of pure primal terror.

A second passed, and then came the sound of guards shouting.

Chapter 4

The fluorescent lights of the Venice police station interrogation room buzzed overhead like trapped insects. Sofia Costa sat with her back straight and her face neutral. Three hours had passed since they'd discovered Professor Bellanti's body in the restricted archives.

The room smelled of cigarettes despite Italy's indoor smoking ban, the acrid scent baked in the walls. A water stain mottled the ceiling. Sofia found the metal chair pressing uncomfortably against her spine.

The door opened slowly. Two detectives entered—one older with salt-and-pepper hair cut close to his scalp and deep lines around his mouth, the other younger with a permanent scowl that suggested he practiced it in mirrors to intimidate suspects. The older man carried a thin manila folder; the younger one nothing but an air of hostility.

"Signora Costa," the older detective began in Italian. "I am Detective Ricci. This is my colleague, Detective Moretti." He didn't offer his hand, instead pulling out the chair across from her with a metallic scrape against the floor.

"Detective," Sofia replied. "I've answered these preliminary questions twice already. I'd like to contact my colleague at Interpol now."

It had been her final option. She’d known they’d have to treat her as a suspect. She’d been found trespassing in the same location as a murder victim.

But invoking Varga’s name? It had taken everything in her. She didn’t need him to come to her rescue. She just needed him to answer a phone call and give her a vouch. If he claimed her as an Interpol liaison, then perhaps she would be out before morning.

Ricci's grip tightened on his pen—a micro-expression most wouldn't catch, but to Sofia, it spoke volumes. Tension. Territorial response. Resentment of outside agencies.

"All in good time," he replied, opening the folder. "Let's go through this again. You were at the Biblioteca San Teodoro at"—he checked his notes with exaggerated care—"approximately 11:40 PM. After hours. With no authorization."

"As I explained to the officers at the scene, I was investigating Professor Bellanti's disappearance at the request of Contessa Adriana Morosini. The professor had mentioned visiting the library's restricted archives. His research assistant, Eliana Rossi, accompanied me." Sofia kept her voice measured, factual. "I've provided the contessa's contact information. She will confirm everything."

The younger detective, Moretti, leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the table. His cologne was too strong, a cheap imitation of something expensive. "Breaking and entering is still illegal in Venice, even when nobility asks for it."

Sofia noticed the slight curl of his upper lip when he mentioned nobility—class resentment, perhaps, or personal history with the Morosini family. She filed it away.

"I didn't break anything," she replied calmly. "The service entrance was unlocked." A small lie but delivered with perfect conviction. "As a security consultant, I was concerned about the professor's welfare and the safety of the materials he was researching."

"Convenient that you found him dead, no?" Moretti pressed, his tone hardening. "A foreign specialist appears in Venice, and within days, one of our most respected historians turns up murdered."

Sofia noted the change in language—murder, not death. They'd already ruled out accident or suicide. Her hands remained calmly folded on the table, though her mind raced, noting every detail—the angle of Moretti's shoulders as he leaned forward, the way Ricci's eyes flicked toward his partner when the word “murdered” was used. Disapproval of technique, not substance.

"I would like to contact Julian Varga at Interpol," she repeated, her voice a degree cooler. "He can verify my credentials and purpose in Venice."

"Phone privileges come after questioning, signora," Ricci said with artificial patience. "Standard procedure."

Sofia switched to Portuguese. "Then I'd like to contact the Portuguese consulate as well. My dual citizenship entitles me to representation."

Ricci's eyes narrowed—annoyance at her language shift, discomfort at the mention of diplomatic complications.

"Let's stay with Italian for now," Ricci replied, pointedly continuing in his native tongue. "Tell me again about the body. You say you found him in the restricted archive room?"

"Yes. Near the western wing," Sofia answered, watching carefully.

"The eastern balcony section, you mean," Moretti corrected sharply.

"No," she said with quiet certainty. "The western wing. The restricted archives room with the Byzantine mosaic floor. Professor Bellanti was lying supine, arms outstretched, with an ornamental dagger in his chest. The hilt had distinctive markings—possibly seventeenth century Venetian craftsmanship, though I didn't examine it closely."

"You know quite a bit about antique weapons," Moretti observed, voice heavy with insinuation.

Sofia didn’t reply.

"Tell me about the assistant—Eliana Rossi," Ricci said, changing tack. "How well do you know her?"

"We met yesterday when I began looking into the professor's disappearance. She seemed genuinely concerned about him. How is she? I understand she was taken to the hospital."

"Panic attack," Moretti said dismissively. "Hysterical after finding the body."

Sofia nodded, understanding Eliana's reaction perfectly well. The human mind wasn't designed to process such violence up close, especially unexpectedly.

She was growing tired of this. Three hours was too long. They were trying to wear her down. But she had questions of her own, and now, she decided it was time to go on the offensive.

She cleared her throat.

"The professor was researching something called 'Operazione Laguna,'" Sofia said, watching their reactions closely. "Connected to Cold War activities and Venetian noble families."

Detective Ricci's pen paused over his notepad, his knuckles whitening. Moretti's face remained impassive, but Sofia caught the dilation of his pupils—an autonomic response to stress or heightened attention impossible to fake or suppress.

"Where did you hear this name?" Ricci asked, his tone deliberately casual.

"Eliana mentioned it. She said the professor believed it connected to three historical deaths previously ruled as accidents." Sofia held his gaze. "Given the circumstances of Professor Bellanti's death, that seems particularly relevant, doesn't it?"

Before either detective could respond, the door opened. A stern woman in her fifties entered, her clothing immaculate, her posture military-precise. She bent to whisper something to Ricci, whose expression darkened momentarily before settling into professional neutrality.

"We've received confirmation of your identity from Interpol," Ricci said after the woman withdrew, his tone notably less confrontational. "Your colleague, Julian Varga, vouches for your credentials and your record."

"Then I'm free to go?" Sofia asked, keeping her tone even though relief coursed through her.

Inwardly, she wondered if she was just being paranoid, or if the sudden change in tone had only come after she’d brought up the research. Curious.

"For now," Moretti interjected, his arms folded across his chest. "But don't leave Venice, Signora Costa. We will have more questions."

Sofia gathered her satchel. As she stood, Ricci cleared his throat.

"The professor's research—these accidents he was investigating," he said, his voice lower now. "We would appreciate your discretion on this matter with the press."

"Of course. Though I imagine the contessa will expect updates on her friend's case."

"The contessa does not run our police department, regardless of her family's history."

"No," Sofia agreed pleasantly, slipping back into perfect Venetian dialect. "Just the city museum board, the historical preservation committee, and three major charitable foundations. I'll be sure to tell her how helpful you've been."

As she headed for the door, Sofia couldn't help but notice how Ricci's eyes followed her.

Sofia was escorted from the interrogation room down a corridor lined with frosted glass doors, each bearing the faded names of various police departments in peeling gold letters. The uniformed officer leading her walked with the mindless efficiency of someone who had traversed these hallways thousands of times, his keys jingling softly at his belt with each step. Despite her exhaustion—the adrenaline crash after finding Bellanti's body was beginning to take its toll—Sofia remained alert, her trained ears catching snippets of conversation from the offices they passed, filing away information that might prove useful later.

As they approached a partially open door, voices raised in heated argument spilled into the corridor. Sofia's pace slowed as she automatically translated the rapid-fire dialect, listening not just to the words but the emotional currents beneath them.

"This is a Venetian matter," insisted a male voice—deeper than Moretti's but with the same officious tone. "The professor was our citizen, the murder happened on our soil, in our jurisdiction."

"Orders from above," countered another voice, this one clipped and precise. "This case has implications beyond Venice. Beyond Italy, even."

Sofia's escort glanced back, noticing her reduced pace. She offered an apologetic smile, exaggerating a slight limp. "Scusi," she murmured. "My ankle. The detention cell bench was not kind."

The officer nodded sympathetically, slowing his stride to match hers. The voices from the office grew clearer.

"First Interpol, now the Ministry? Next you'll tell me the Americans are interested too," the first voice said sarcastically.

A pause, then: "What do you know about Operazione Laguna?"

Chapter 5

Sofia's breath caught. There it was again—the operation Bellanti had been researching. She forced herself to maintain her limp, giving no indication that the phrase had any significance to her.

The officer escorting Sofia cleared his throat loudly as they passed the door, and the conversation inside ceased abruptly. Sofia caught a glimpse of two men—one in the uniform of a senior police official, the other in the understated dark suit that screamed government agency—before they were past the doorway and approaching the station's exit.

Outside intervention. Jurisdiction disputes. A government agency interested in a decades-old operation. Sofia started forming connections as they continued toward the exit. Whatever Bellanti had discovered in those archives had triggered attention far beyond a local murder investigation.

The main reception area of the police station hummed with subdued activity—officers filing reports, civilians waiting on hard plastic chairs, phones ringing at irregular intervals. Sofia's escort gestured toward the desk where her personal items waited in a plastic tray.

"Your belongings, signora," the desk sergeant said, pushing forward a form. "Sign here."

Sofia scanned the inventory list before signing—phone, wallet, keys, and the worn leather notebook she carried everywhere. She checked her phone briefly—three missed calls from Nuno, her former mentor.

She felt a wave of affection for her old friend. She made a mental note to return his call.

The station doors slid open automatically, releasing Sofia into the cramped Venetian street. Evening had fallen while she was inside, the sky deepening to indigo above the historic buildings. Street lamps cast pools of amber light on the damp cobblestones, and the air carried the distinctive scent of the lagoon—salt water, stone, and algae—that all Venetians recognized.

"Hey there."

The familiar voice came from her left.

She turned and went still.

“No…”

“Nice to see you too.”

“I didn’t ask for you to come,” she said, staring at where Julian Varga stood in the glow of a street lamp, his tall frame leaning casually against a damp wall.

“Yeah, well, I was in Rome. Quick helicopter flight.” He flashed that affable smile of his. Despite the circumstances, Sofia felt a surge of genuine warmth at the sight of him.

Julian's appearance was as comfortingly familiar as an old book. His threadbare corduroy jacket hung from his lanky frame with the indifference of a man who had never cared about fashion. The sweater beneath it—a faded blue that somehow matched his striking eyes—sported several holes at the cuffs where his restless fingers had worried the fabric during long stakeouts. His brown hair stood in perpetual disarray, as if he'd just stepped out of a strong wind, and his barely-there beard looked more like he'd forgotten to shave for several days than an intentional style choice.

"I asked Interpol to vouch for me," Sofia said, studying her former colleague's face. "I didn't ask for a personal visit."

Julian's smile crinkled the corners of his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that had always seemed at odds with his otherwise ordinary features. His slightly crooked nose and soft jawline would never qualify him as conventionally handsome, but there was something magnetic about his gaze—a quality that had served him well during his years as an investigator.

"When my favorite forensic polyglot gets detained at a murder scene, I don't just send a fax," he replied, his voice carrying that distinctive mixture of friendliness and intensity that Sofia had come to associate with him during their partnership at Interpol. "Besides, your call came through official channels. Had to respond officially."

Sofia was about to reply when movement beyond Julian's shoulder caught her eye. Another figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing, with dark hair swept into a severe chignon. Sofia's blood ran cold.

"Hello, Sofia," said Natasha Kovic, her voice as emotionless as Sofia remembered. "It's been a while."

“Oh, yeah,” Julian added, wincing and scratching at his head. “My partner came too.”

Sofia had history with Julian’s partner. In fact, the two women had once been assigned to each other.

Sofia's mind flashed back to their last encounter—Natasha's betrayal, the internal investigation, the forced resignation that had ended Sofia's Interpol career.

"What is she doing here?" Sofia asked Julian, not bothering to address Natasha directly.

Julian's expression faltered—a flash of discomfort quickly masked by professional composure. "Natasha is heading up the task force that's taking interest in your professor's murder."

"Task force?" Sofia echoed, glancing between them. "What task force?"

Natasha stepped forward, the light highlighting her angular features. "Operation Laguna has resurfaced, Sofia. After all these years. Your dead professor stumbled onto something that's been buried for decades."

"And you're here because...?" Sofia let the question hang, already dreading the answer.

"Because I'm the best," Natasha replied simply.

Julian shifted uncomfortably, his worn boot scuffing against the cobblestones. "Look, I know this is awkward, but—"

"Awkward doesn't begin to cover it." Sofia's voice was tight. "The last time I saw Agent Kovic, she was testifying against me in a closed-door hearing that ended my career."

Natasha's ice-blue eyes remained unreadable, her features arranged in a mask of detachment. Sofia remembered why coworkers back at Interpol had called Natasha the Ice Queen. "Ancient history. We have more pressing concerns now."

Tension crackled between the three figures. Sofia studied Natasha, noticing the changes three years had wrought—a new hardness around the mouth, a small scar near her right temple that hadn't been there before. Her clothing was impeccable as always—a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Sofia earned in a month.

"Operation Laguna," Sofia said finally, turning back to Julian. "That's why you're both here. Not for me."

Julian's expression softened. "Both reasons matter, Sofia. You know that." He glanced at Natasha, then back to Sofia. "Can we go somewhere to talk? Preferably somewhere dry and with coffee? It's been a long day for all of us."

Sofia hesitated, weighing her options. The smart choice would be to walk away, to continue her investigation independently. But Julian had information she needed, and despite everything, she trusted him. It was Natasha who was the outlier—cold, calculating Natasha with her perfect composure and her history of betrayal.

"No,” Sofia said at last. “I’m afraid I don’t trust her.”

“Ah,” Natasha replied. “And I’m afraid you have no choice. I don’t care if you trust me.”

Natasha stepped closer, her heels clicking on the street. "Let me be perfectly clear, Sofia. Your presence at the crime scene makes you a person of interest in an investigation that spans multiple jurisdictions and agencies. I just spoke with Detective Ricci, who was quite reluctant to release you."

The implication hung in the air between them, sharp as the dagger that had ended Professor Bellanti's life. Sofia's jaw tightened as understanding dawned.

"You're threatening to have me detained again if I don't cooperate."

"Not threatening," Natasha corrected. "Simply stating facts. One phone call, and you'll spend the next week in an interrogation room instead of helping us solve this case." She checked her watch casually. "Your choice, but I need it now."

Julian shot Sofia an apologetic glance. "It's not ideal, but we could use your expertise. And you'll have access to resources you wouldn't otherwise."

Sofia looked between them, thinking rapidly. She thought of Bellanti's body splayed across that mosaic floor.

"Fine," she said at last, the word bitter on her tongue. "But this is a professional arrangement only. I work with you, not for you. And I maintain my independent investigation."

"I don’t care what you want to call it. Just do as I say," Natasha replied smoothly, as if the outcome had never been in doubt. "We've secured a workspace at the Hotel Danieli. Julian will brief you on what we know so far." She turned and began walking, clearly expecting them to follow.

Julian fell into step beside Sofia, his frame hunched against the evening chill. "I'm sorry about this," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "For what it's worth, I fought to keep her off this assignment."

"And lost, apparently," Sofia replied, adjusting her satchel across her body. "What exactly is this task force investigating?"

"Operation Laguna was a Cold War intelligence operation run through Venice in the sixties and seventies," Julian explained, his voice barely audible above the ambient sounds of the city. "Used the noble families as cover for moving sensitive information between East and West. We thought it was defunct, buried with the Soviet Union."

"Until Bellanti started digging," Sofia finished, pieces clicking into place. "And found connections to those three deaths."

Julian nodded grimly. "The operation was officially disbanded in 1978 after a security breach. But someone's reactivated the old networks. And they're killing to keep it quiet."

They crossed a small stone bridge, its balustrade worn smooth by centuries of hands. Below, canal water rippled in shades of indigo and black, reflecting fragmented light from windows above.

"We believe your professor found evidence linking the operation to current political figures," Julian continued, his voice dropping even lower. "High-ranking officials who'd rather stay buried in the shadows."

Sofia was about to respond when movement on the water caught her eye. A gondola glided silently beneath the bridge, its sleek form cutting through the water. The gondolier stood tall at the stern, his silhouette unmistakable against the shimmering canal. But something was wrong—the boat moved too purposefully, the gondolier's posture was too rigid.

A solitary passenger sat in the gondola's curved interior, face obscured by shadows. As the craft passed directly beneath them, the figure shifted, and the light caught something metallic.

Sofia's years of training crystallized into a single moment of clarity. The metallic object wasn't a camera or a phone—it was the distinctive shape of a handgun with a suppressor attachment.

"Julian, down!"

Sofia's body moved before her mind could fully process what was happening. She slammed into Julian's side, driving them both to the wet cobblestones as the night air shivered with the distinctive phut of a suppressed weapon. The bullet struck the stone balustrade where they had been standing, sending marble chips flying.

Chapter 6

A second bullet struck stone inches from Sofia's head, marble fragments raining down as she pulled Julian closer to the ground. Venice's night air carried the acrid scent of gunpowder beneath the ever-present brine of canal water.

Her ears rang from the shot, but her mind remained clear, observing every detail: gondola moving at approximately four knots, shooter right-handed based on stance, trajectory suggesting professional training. Three seconds had passed since they hit the cobblestones. In four more, the shooter would have a clear angle for a second attempt.

"Move!" Sofia hissed, her fingers digging into Julian's corduroy jacket as she dragged him behind the meager protection of the bridge.

A second shot splintered the night, ricocheting off the ground where they'd been heartbeats before. Sofia pressed her back against cold stone, stealing a glance at Natasha, who had taken cover on the opposite side of the bridge, her service weapon already drawn. In the dim lamplight, Sofia caught the expression that flashed across the Ice Queen's face—not fear, but something Sofia had never seen there before: surprise. Genuine, unguarded surprise.

"The gondola," Sofia called, switching to Interpol's operational French, the language all three of them shared professionally. "Moving south. Two occupants. Driver and shooter."

Below them, the sleek black craft continued slicing through water, its distinctive silhouette unmistakable. The gondolier bent low now, abandoning the traditional upright posture for speed, using the pole with fierce determination. The passenger had ducked below the interior, invisible from their vantage point.

"Go," Natasha commanded. She was already moving, quick and deadly, following the canal's edge with her weapon at the ready.

Sofia turned to Julian, her gaze sweeping over him for signs of injury. His breathing pattern showed slight elevation beyond expected adrenaline response, and a tightness around his eyes suggested pain. "You're hit?"

"Grazed," he replied, gesturing to his left arm where a dark stain was spreading. "Nothing critical. Flesh wound."

Sofia noted the control in his voice. Not serious, then. She nodded once, already figuring out their pursuit route. "Canal curves ahead. They'll be faster on water than we are on foot through these alleys." She rose into a crouch, eyes never leaving the gondola. "We need to cut them off at the Fondamenta Zattere."

Julian was already up, ignoring his wounded arm. With silent agreement, they moved in tandem as they sprinted after Natasha.

They ran along the narrow fondamenta, the walkway hugging the canal's edge, passing shuttered shopfronts and sleeping cafés. Laundry lines stretched overhead between buildings, ghostly shirts and sheets hanging still in the windless night. The slap of their footsteps against wet stone echoed.

Sofia tracked the gondola even as she navigated the treacherous path. The craft moved with unexpected speed, its gondolier clearly not the singing tourist-pleaser but someone who knew how to extract maximum velocity from it. The canal curved ahead, temporarily obscuring their target from view.

"Cut through there," Sofia called, pointing to a calle branching away from the water. "It will bring us out ahead of them."

Julian followed without hesitation, trusting her instinctive knowledge of the city's geography. Natasha hesitated a fraction of a second—a telling pause that Sofia registered immediately—before following them into the passage.

The alleyway narrowed until their shoulders nearly brushed the walls on each side. Sofia led them through the maze, counting turnings in her head—second right, first left, straight past the Madonna niche with its flickering votive candle. Behind her, Julian's footsteps were steady while Natasha's revealed her growing impatience.

They emerged onto a wider embankment just as the gondola rounded the final curve. Sofia's strategy had been perfect—they were now thirty meters ahead of the shooter, at a point where the canal met a larger waterway. The gondolier spotted them right away, his reaction visible even at this distance.

"Police!" Natasha shouted in Italian, her weapon raised. "Stop immediately!"

The gondola veered sharply, heading not for the open water of the larger canal but toward a small dock jutting from the embankment. The gondola bumped against pilings, and two figures vaulted onto the dock—the passenger first, followed by the gondolier with unexpected agility.

"They're splitting up," Julian called, moving toward the fleeing suspects.

The figures disappeared between buildings, ghosting into separate alleys. Natasha barked orders into her radio, tersely summoning backup that would arrive too late to be useful.

"You take the right," she commanded Julian. "I'll take the left. Sofia—"

But Sofia was already racing after the gunman.

The pursuit led Sofia toward the Grand Canal. The suspect remained just visible ahead—a darker shadow among shadows, moving with the confidence of someone who knew these streets intimately. Sofia's lungs burned as she ran, her mind mapping each turn, calculating intercept points.

The narrow calle suddenly opened onto the wide embankment flanking Venice's aquatic main artery. The Grand Canal stretched before them, a sinuous ribbon reflecting the illuminated windows of centuries-old palazzos lining its banks. Nighttime boat traffic had thinned, but the distinctive outline of a vaporetto—the city's water bus—was pulling away from a dock twenty meters ahead, its engines churning the water into frothy waves.

Normally, the vessel wouldn’t run this late. A maintenance issue? A prearranged bribe?

Without hesitation, the suspect sprinted toward the departing water bus. Sofia tracked the figure's movement, instantly understanding their intent. The water bus represented the perfect escape—once aboard and moving into the open canal, pursuit on foot would become impossible.

Sofia skidded to a halt at the dock's edge. The vaporetto was accelerating, the gap widening with each passing second. Jump now, or lose the suspect entirely.

Her body made the decision before her conscious mind finished the thought. Sofia took three rapid steps back, then launched herself forward. Her boot heels struck the dock's edge, and she propelled herself into the void, legs cycling through empty air as momentum carried her across the gap.

She hit the vaporetto's deck with bone-jarring impact, landing in a controlled roll that absorbed the worst of it. The boat rocked precariously beneath her, passengers gasping as they clutched handrails and each other for stability. A private party, then. Sometimes, wealthy tourists could hire after-hours private trips. Usually, the trips involved ample wine and revelry.

Sofia rose fluidly to her feet, her storm-gray eyes already locked on the suspect disappearing into the crowded interior cabin.

The vaporetto swayed beneath her feet, its engines throbbing steadily as it sailed through the waters of the Grand Canal. Sofia pushed through startled passengers in evening wear, their champagne glasses tilting dangerously as she shouldered past. A woman in a sequined dress cried out in Italian-accented English, "What is happening?" but Sofia had no time to answer.

The suspect weaved through the cabin, a black-clad figure slipping between laughing tourists and bewildered staff. Sofia caught a glimpse of something metallic—the gun still in hand—and her pulse quickened. A crowded boat. An armed suspect. The worst possible combination.

"Tutti giù!" she shouted in rapid Italian. "Everyone down!"

Some passengers responded instinctively to the authority in her voice, dropping to the floor. Others remained standing, confused, thinking perhaps this was some unexpected entertainment for their night cruise.

The suspect reached the far end of the cabin and glanced back. For a split second, Sofia caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood—young, male, with a distinctive scar tracing from eye to jaw. Their eyes locked, and Sofia saw the flash of recognition there. Not of her personally, but of what she represented. Threat. Pursuit. Consequence.

He turned and burst through the door to the outer deck.

Sofia followed. The vaporetto was now midway across the Grand Canal, Venice's iconic skyline creating a jagged outline against the night sky. St. Mark's campanile rose like a monument to their right, its form reflected in the water below.

On the open deck, passengers scattered as the gunman swung wildly, searching for an escape. Sofia advanced, hands up in the universal gesture of calm.

He turned towards her, gun raised. But she’d expected this as she darted in close, slamming a hand against his wrist. His gun went clattering. The hand she’d struck remained tensed, balled, but she noticed a ring on one of his fingers.
She stared at it. A signet ring.

The ring had a lion's head insignia—identical to the one she'd seen on the dagger protruding from Professor Bellanti's chest. Sofia's eyes widened, her focus momentarily diverted from the suspect's face to the damning piece of evidence on his hand.

"Stop!" she commanded, lunging forward to grab his wrist.

But the momentary distraction cost her. The suspect twisted away. Before Sofia could react, he vaulted over the railing in an easy motion that showed trained athleticism rather than panic.

The waters of the Grand Canal swallowed him with hardly a splash.

Sofia reached the railing in two strides, scanning the surface below. Nothing. No swimming figure, no thrashing arms, not even bubbles marking where he'd gone under. The vaporetto continued its progress, each second carrying them further from the point where he’d jumped.

"Man overboard!" she shouted in Italian, then English, drawing the captain's attention. "Turn back!"

Passengers crowded the railing, their evening festivities forgotten as they peered into the murky depths. Searchlights mounted on the vaporetto's bow swept across the water's surface, revealing nothing but gentle waves and the occasional piece of floating debris.

"Did you see where he went under?" asked the captain, a Venetian whose lined face suggested decades navigating these waters.

Sofia pointed to the approximate location, already knowing the futility of the gesture. The canal was deep here, its bottom a graveyard of sunken treasures and forgotten secrets. If the suspect had chosen to stay submerged, swimming beneath the surface to emerge elsewhere, they'd never spot him in the darkness.

"He was armed," she informed the captain. "A person of interest in a murder investigation."

The captain's expression hardened. He barked orders to his crew, who began maneuvering the vessel in a slow circle, searchlights moving with increasing urgency. But Sofia already knew what the expanding search would unearth—nothing.

"Take us to the nearest dock," she instructed, her mind already thinking of next steps. "I need to contact my colleagues."

Ten minutes later, the vaporetto docked at a small wooden platform near the Rialto Bridge. Sofia disembarked quickly, already dialing Julian's number on her phone. The night had grown colder, or perhaps it was just the adrenaline leaving her system. Either way, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Venetian air.

"Julian," she said when he answered, her voice tight with frustration. "I lost him. He went into the canal."

"Meet us at Campo San Luca," Julian replied, his voice similarly tense. "Our guy slipped away too. Natasha's coordinating with local police to drag the canal, but..."

"But he's already gone,” she insisted.

“Yeah. He is.”

“I’m on my way. I… I saw something. I think these guys are connected to the professor’s murder.”

"Wait," Julian's voice sharpened through the phone. "What did you see?"

Sofia pressed the phone closer to her ear, moving away from the docked vaporetto where curious passengers still crowded the rails. A gondola glided past, its occupants oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded on these waters.

"A signet ring. Lion's head design. Identical to the one on the dagger in Bellanti's chest."

A beat of silence followed. Sofia could almost see Julian processing this information, connecting dots.

"The contessa would recognize it," he said finally. "Venetian nobility used distinctive signet rings for centuries. If it's a family crest—"

"—then we can identify who's behind this," Sofia finished. "The Morosinis would have detailed records of noble house insignias. And she knew Bellanti personally."

"First thing tomorrow morning," Julian agreed. "We need to speak with the contessa before anyone else gets to her. If Bellanti was killed for what he discovered about Operation Laguna, and these noble families are involved—"

"Then she could be in danger too," Sofia interjected, already pulling up the fastest route to her hotel. "Or complicit."

"I'll handle Natasha. Meet at the Palazzo D'Inverno at seven. Early enough to catch the contessa before her morning appointments."

Sofia nodded, though Julian couldn't see her. "I'll be there. And Julian... watch your back. Whoever these people are, they're well-connected and desperate."

"Always do," he replied, his voice softening momentarily. "You, too, Sofia."

The line went dead, leaving Sofia alone with the gentle lapping of canal water. Moving across the row of docks, she pocketed her phone and picked up her pace as Venice settled into its midnight quiet.

As she navigated the streets back toward her hotel, Sofia's mind flipped through possibilities. The contessa had hired her to authenticate the Morosini documents. Had that been genuine or merely a pretext to monitor what Bellanti might have discovered? Was Adriana Morosini a potential victim or part of whatever conspiracy had silenced the professor?

Sofia paused beneath an archway, grabbing her notebook. By the light of a nearby street lamp, she sketched the lion's head design she'd glimpsed on the attacker's ring, committing every detail to paper while it remained fresh in her memory. The unique mane, the open jaws, the peculiar angular shape of the eyes—all potential identifiers of a specific noble house.

Tucking the notebook away, Sofia continued through the sleeping city. Venice at night was a different place—hushed and secretive, holding centuries of whispered conspiracies and clandestine meetings. How fitting that a Cold War operation should have found fertile ground here…

But though something had started in the secret spaces of this old city, it was Sofia’s job to drag it into the light of day.

Chapter 7

Sofia's hotel room was sparse but sufficient, a third-floor corner unit in a converted sixteenth-century palazzo far from the tourist zones. She peeled off her damp clothes, wincing as bruises from the vaporetto landing made themselves known across her shoulders and hip. The shower's hot water eased some of her physical discomfort but did nothing for the tension gripping her mind.

Wrapped in the hotel's thin robe, Sofia moved to the window. Rain had returned. Droplets traced lazy patterns down the glass, distorting the view of the canal below. A single gondola passed, its lantern ghostly against the water's surface.

There was something achingly beautiful about the city at night, especially in the rain—something that brought up the melancholy Sofia rarely acknowledged within herself. Venice was a city slowly drowning, fighting against its inevitable fate with centuries of engineering and sheer stubborn will. Perhaps that's why she felt such kinship with it.

Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. Another missed call from Nuno. Her mentor would be worried by now.

Sofia typed quickly: *I'm fine. Out. Thanks for checking.*

She hesitated, then added, *Call tomorrow.*

Setting the phone down, she felt a pang of guilt. Nuno had been more than her supervisor at Interpol—he'd become the closest thing to family she had left. His persistent concern was one of the few constants in her life, even if she sometimes found it smothering.

Sofia settled into the room's only chair, pulling her laptop from her satchel. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before opening the encrypted folder labeled only with her mother's initials.

The familiar audio file waited, its waveform a visual representation of the last words her mother had ever spoken. Sofia inserted her earbuds and pressed play.

She listened through the casual conversation, the reminiscence about Capri, waiting for the moment everything changed.

Sofia's mind caught on her father's words from the enhanced audio: "Valezzi! She's here..." She stared at the rain-streaked window while her thoughts crystallized.

She reached for her notebook, flipping to a blank page. In her careful handwriting, she wrote "Valezzi" at the center, then drew radiating lines.

But what did they radiate to?

On her call with Nuno, she’d need to ask for his help. Though he was technically retired from Interpol, few people knew how to find needles in digital haystacks like Nuno Silva. Her old mentor had opened an antique bookstore in Lisbon after his retirement. She thought this was partly because he enjoyed the search for a particular title at the request of a customer, digging through piles of old leatherbound manuscripts.

A knock on her door.

Sofia frowned, glancing back.

She reached for her sidearm, but her fingers closed on air—her weapon was still in her suitcase. She moved quietly to the door, peering through the peephole.

Julian stood in the hallway, looking like a half-drowned stray. His usually tousled hair was plastered to his forehead, and he clutched his hat in his hands, wringing water onto the carpet. The threadbare sweater beneath his jacket clung to his frame, darkened with rain. His expression was a mixture of apology and exhaustion.

She opened the door, one eyebrow raised in question.

"You okay?" he asked immediately, his blue eyes scanning her face with genuine concern. A wince crossed his features as he shifted, revealing a makeshift bandage on his arm where the bullet had grazed him.

Sofia nodded once, stepping back to allow him entry.

"Sorry about Natasha," he said, his voice low as he crossed the threshold. "I should've warned you she was coming." He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, water pooling beneath his scuffed boots, hat still clutched in his restless hands.

Something in his uncertain posture—so unlike the confident investigator she remembered—made Sofia soften. She shut the door and gestured toward the room's only chair.

"Sit before you collapse, Julian." She moved to the bathroom, returning with a towel that she tossed at his head. "You look terrible."

A trace of his usual grin appeared as he caught the towel. "Always the charmer, Costa." He scrubbed at his hair, wincing again as the movement pulled at his injured arm.

"Let me see that," Sofia said, pointing toward the bandage. Without waiting for permission, she crossed to his side and gently pushed up his soaked sleeve.

"It's nothing," he protested, but he allowed her to examine the wound. "Paramedic already cleaned and dressed it."

The bandage was professional but hastily applied. Blood had seeped through in one corner, but the bleeding had stopped. Sofia nodded, satisfied it wasn't serious.

"You should have gone to the hospital," she said, stepping back.

Julian shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first bullet graze I've walked off."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Julian's eyes wandered to her open laptop, to the audio file displayed onscreen. His expression registered recognition.

"Still working on it," he said quietly. Not a question.

Sofia closed the laptop with a decisive movement. "Why are you here, Julian? It's almost one in the morning."

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. "Officially? To brief you on tomorrow's meeting with the contessa. Unofficially..." He hesitated, then met her gaze. "Did you miss me?" The question landed between them with typical Julian bluntness, his blue eyes suddenly intent on hers.

Sofia blinked, caught off guard by the directness that had always been his trademark. In all her years working with linguists, diplomats, and interrogators, she'd never encountered someone who could cut through pretense with such disarming simplicity.

She rolled her eyes, buying time as something warm and unexpected fluttered in her chest. "Yes," she admitted at last, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "Though I had plenty to keep me occupied while you were playing spy in Eastern Europe."

Relief washed across his features. "Eight weeks felt like eight years. Deep cover is... lonely."

"That's why you're standing in my hotel room at one in the morning? Because you missed conversation?"

Julian shrugged, grimacing as his wet clothes clung uncomfortably. "The operation in Romania was bigger than we thought. Arms dealers using cultural heritage sites as transfer points. I couldn't risk any contact, even secure channels."

"I know how undercover works, Julian." Sofia moved to the window, watching raindrops race down the pane. “Didn’t expect you to come to Venice.”

“You called.”

“For a vouch, not a visit.”

“I thought you said you missed me,” he countered, his lopsided, lazy grin out in full force.

She shook her head. “You, yeah. Natasha? Not so much.”

"That wasn't my call." Frustration edged his voice. "Something about that murdered professor of yours. He’s known by Natasha. She’s been cagey about the whole business.”

Sofia turned back to him. "Yet here we are, with the Ice Queen inserting herself into my investigation."

"Our investigation," he corrected gently. "Operation Laguna has priority classification. The moment Bellanti's murder connected to it, Interpol's involvement became mandatory."

"And they sent you because...?"

Julian's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Because I'm the only agent who can handle both you and Natasha without someone ending up dead?"

Despite herself, Sofia laughed—a short, surprised sound that seemed to lighten the air between them. "Your diplomatic skills always were underrated."

"Nothing diplomatic about it. I'm just stubborn enough to stand between two forces of nature." He leaned forward, serious again. "Listen, Sofia, there's something you should know about Natasha's involvement. She’s angling for a promotion.”

“The one you turned down?”

“Didn’t match my shoes.”

She snorted. “The promotion didn’t match your shoes? You’re a wiseass, you know that?”

He grinned at her again, and she felt that same stirring. She found herself studying Julian Varga, watching him. Not like a subject. Nor like an interrogatee. Rather, like something found in the Louvre.

There was familiarity in his presence that Sofia hadn't realized she'd missed until this moment. Something about the way he occupied space—his tall frame both awkward and graceful, his hands perpetually in motion, his eyes that missed nothing despite his casual demeanor.

"Natasha wants this case solved quickly and cleanly," Julian continued, his voice dropping lower. "The promotion puts her in Brussels, overseeing Counter-Intelligence. Career-maker."

"And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because her ambition makes her dangerous. She'll follow protocol to the letter while stepping over anything—or anyone—in her way."

Sofia nodded slowly. "Including me."

"Especially you." His eyes held hers, unblinking. "Your history complicates things."

Sofia crossed her arms, feeling suddenly small in the thin hotel robe. "What aren't you telling me, Julian?"

He hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty crossing his features. "There's... speculation that Operation Laguna never truly shut down. That after the official closure in '78, a shadow version continued operating through the same channels. Weapons, intelligence, money laundering."

"And Bellanti found proof," Sofia finished for him.

"Maybe. What we know for certain is that someone didn't want him sharing whatever he discovered." Julian stood, moving to the window where Sofia had been standing moments before. "The lion signet ring you saw tonight? If it matches the dagger in Bellanti's chest, we're dealing with an organized group, not a random killing."

"Old Venetian families maintaining Cold War networks for modern profit. Using the city's history as cover."

Julian nodded grimly. "Hiding in plain sight."

"The contessa—"

"Could be involved, yes." Julian turned from the window, his face serious. "Or in danger herself. We need to approach carefully tomorrow."

Sofia grabbed her notebook. She flipped to the page where she'd sketched the lion's head design. "Here. This is what I saw on the ring."

Julian studied the drawing, his forehead creasing in concentration. "Distinctive. Not one of the major families, I think. Something older, perhaps, or more obscure."

"Or deliberately chosen to mislead." Sofia took the notebook back, staring at her own drawing. "The contessa will know. If she's willing to tell us."

Julian checked his watch, grimacing at the late hour. "I should go. Get some rest before tomorrow."

He moved toward the door but paused, his hand on the knob. "Sofia..." He turned back, indecision evident in his posture. "I really did miss you.”

She studied him, then glanced out the window again at the rainy, sinking city. The same sort of melancholy filled her chest. But it wasn’t so bad with Julian in the room. It almost seemed to fade the closer he came. Now, as he stood in the doorway, she felt a strange vulnerability.

Not in anything she’d said. But in what she was keeping to herself.

Please stay.

Don’t go.

I missed you too.

Such easy words to speak… At least, theoretically. But somehow, each of them lodged in her throat.

The words wouldn't come. Instead, Sofia crossed the room, closing the distance between them. She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his with uncharacteristic gentleness.

"Be careful out there," she said finally, her voice soft. "Whoever these people are, they've already killed once and tried again tonight."

Julian's eyes searched hers, reading the unspoken concerns beneath her words. His fingers tightened around hers in acknowledgment.

"Seven tomorrow," he confirmed. "I'll meet you outside the palazzo."

After he left, Sofia stood motionless in the center of the room, listening to his receding footsteps in the corridor outside. The rain continued its deluge.

Was the contessa involved? Would she react poorly to their approach?

Sofia wasn’t excited at the prospect of confronting a noblewoman from a house that had lasted nearly a millennium.

Noble families that lasted that long often knew the art of backroom deals, deadly secrets, and daggers in the night.

Chapter 8

The Palazzo D'Inverno loomed against the morning sky, glowing amber in the early light. Sofia arrived precisely at seven, having taken a circuitous route through a calle and over footbridges to ensure she wasn't followed. Her sleep had been brief but enough, years of fieldwork having taught her to function on minimal rest.

Julian waited beneath a stone archway opposite the palazzo's entrance, a paper cup of espresso in each hand. His injured arm was concealed beneath his jacket, but Sofia noted the stiffness in his movements as he extended one of the cups toward her.

"You look terrible," she observed, accepting the coffee with a small nod of thanks.

"A compliment from Sofia Costa before eight in the morning? I'm flattered." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, which remained alert, scanning their surroundings.

"Natasha?"

"Meeting us inside. She wanted to arrive separately." Julian took a sip of his espresso, grimacing at the bitter strength. "The contessa's secretary confirmed she's in residence. Morning appointments begin at eight-thirty."

They crossed the small campo, approaching the palazzo's imposing entrance. The morning air carried the distinctive scent of coffee from nearby cafés preparing for the day.

"We need to establish whether she's a potential victim or a potential suspect.” Sofia's gaze swept over the palazzo's exterior, noting security cameras discreetly positioned at the corners of window frames. "Her family's been in Venice since the Crusades. If anyone knows the significance of that lion signet ring, it's her."

"Assuming she's willing to share," Julian replied, finishing his espresso. "Noble families guard their secrets like dragons."

The palazzo's main door opened before they reached it, revealing Natasha Kovic in her customary outfit—a charcoal pantsuit that seemed to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it. ]

"You're late," she said by way of greeting, though Sofia's watch showed exactly seven o'clock.

"Good morning to you, too, Natasha," Julian replied with forced cheerfulness. "Lovely weather we're having."

Natasha's eyes flicked to Sofia, then back to Julian. "The contessa is waiting in her private study. She's been informed this is an official Interpol inquiry." She turned without waiting for response.

The palazzo's interior looked like a museum—marble floors worn smooth by time, tapestries whose colors had mellowed with age. Vaulted ceilings were painted with scenes of naval victories from Venice's maritime glory days.

Sofia caught Julian studying her from the corner of his eye. She raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"Just making sure you're not planning to throttle our colleague before we meet the contessa," he muttered, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear.

"I'm a professional," Sofia replied coolly. "Besides, there are too many witnesses."

Julian's mouth twitched in a suppressed smile as they followed Natasha up a sweeping staircase to the piano nobile—the main floor where Venetian nobility had traditionally conducted their business and social affairs.

The contessa's study occupied a corner of the palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal. Morning light streamed through tall windows, illuminating walls lined with leather-bound books and display cases containing artifacts from the family's long history. Adriana Morosini stood as they entered, imperious in navy silk.

"Agent Kovic informs me this is now an official investigation," she said without preamble, her features arranged in a mask of cool civility. "Though I'm unclear why Interpol involves itself in what appears to be a local matter."

"Thank you for seeing us, Contessa," Sofia replied, stepping forward. "Professor Bellanti's murder may connect to matters beyond Venice's jurisdiction."

The contessa gestured toward a seating area where delicate porcelain cups and a silver coffee service awaited on a marquetry table. "Please," she said, her tone making the invitation a command.

Sofia chose a chair that afforded a view of both the door and windows, noting how Julian positioned himself similarly. Natasha remained standing by the study's entrance.

"You found Marco," the contessa stated, pouring coffee with ease and elegance. But when Sofia watched closer, she noted that the porcelain cup trembled in the noblewoman’s hand—the only visible sign of. "The police were not forthcoming with details."

"He was murdered in the restricted archives of Biblioteca San Teodoro," Sofia confirmed, accepting the offered cup. "The weapon was a ceremonial dagger."

"Ceremonial?" The contessa's dark eyes sharpened. "You mean decorative? Antique?"

Sofia reached for her notebook, flipping to the sketch she'd made of the lion's head design. "The dagger had this insignia on its hilt. The same symbol appeared on a ring worn by one of the men who attacked us last night."

Adriana Morosini's composure faltered as she accepted the drawing. Her fingers—adorned with family rings dating back generations—tightened visibly around the paper's edge. Something flashed in her eyes—recognition, certainly, but tinged with what appeared to be genuine shock.

"Where did you see this?" she demanded, her voice a near whisper.

"On the weapon that killed your friend," Julian interjected gently. "And on someone willing to kill again to keep secrets."

The contessa set the drawing on the table with care, as if it might burn her fingers. "This is not a family crest, not in the traditional sense." She rose, moving to one of the glass-fronted display cases lining the study walls. "It's much older. And far more dangerous."

Sofia exchanged a glance with Julian as the contessa unlocked the case, picking up an old volume. The book's spine cracked softly as she opened it on the table between them, pages yellowed with age turning beneath her practiced fingers.

"Here," she said finally, indicating an illustrated page where the same lion's head appeared, rendered in faded gold leaf and crimson ink. "Il Leone Nascosto. The Hidden Lion."

"A secret society?" Julian asked, leaning forward to study the image.

"Of a sort." The contessa's expression hardened. "Founded during the Republic's decline in the late eighteenth century. A consortium of families dedicated to preserving Venetian influence by... alternative means." She met Sofia's gaze directly. "Smuggling. Espionage. Occasionally, assassination."

Sofia felt the pieces shifting, connecting. "And during the Cold War, this consortium reactivated. Operation Laguna."

The contessa's eyebrows rose—the only indication of surprise. "You're well-informed, Ms. Costa." She closed the book with carefully. "Operation Laguna was the CIA's code name for what already existed. The Hidden Lion served as intermediaries between East and West when official channels proved... inconvenient."

"And Professor Bellanti discovered this connection," Natasha stated, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the study.

The contessa returned to her seat, arranging her silk skirts. "Marco was researching financial discrepancies in shipping manifests from the 1960s. He believed he'd found evidence that certain transactions continued long after the operation officially ended." Her gaze drifted toward the windows overlooking the Grand Canal. "He was... excited. Said it would redefine our understanding of how the Cold War was fought."

"Did he mention specific families?" Sofia pressed.

"Not to me." The contessa's expression revealed nothing, but Sofia noted the tension in her shoulders, the tightening around her eyes.

"Contessa," Julian said, his voice carrying that disarming directness that had made him such an effective investigator, "we need to know if your family was involved."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of boats passing on the canal below. Adriana Morosini's face remained impassive.

"The Morosini family," she said at last, "has always served Venice's interests. Through war, plague, occupation, and decline." Her gaze moved from Julian to Sofia. "Sometimes that service required... compromises."

"That's not an answer," Natasha observed coldly.

The contessa's gaze sharpened as it landed on Natasha. "Agent Kovic, when one's family history spans a millennium, answers are rarely simple." She turned back to Sofia. "Yes, the Morosinis were part of the consortium. As were the Contarinis, the Barbaros, and others whose names still grace Venetian palazzos."

Sofia leaned forward. "And the documents I was hired to authenticate?"

"Are genuine," the contessa replied without hesitation. "Though perhaps not comprehensive."

Julian exchanged a look with Sofia, confirming their shared suspicion—the authentication job had been a pretext, a way to monitor what information might emerge.

"Professor Bellanti mentioned three deaths," Sofia said, watching the contessa's reaction closely. "Accidents that he believed were connected to Operation Laguna."

Something shifted in Adriana's features—a flicker of what might have been grief. "Marco became... obsessed with those cases. A diplomat who drowned in 1976. A journalist whose car failed in 1982. A banker who fell from his balcony in 1995."

"He found connections between them," Sofia prompted.

"He believed they had discovered evidence that Operation Laguna never truly ended." The Contessa's voice cracked. "That someone has been using these old networks for something new. Something dangerous."

Sofia watched as the noblewoman's composure broke down further. Her fingers trembled against the fine porcelain cup.

"Marco believed they were all silenced because they'd discovered the same thing he did," Adriana continued. "A pattern of shipments. Manifests that didn't match their declared contents. Money flowing through Venetian banks to destinations that shouldn't exist."

"And now he's been silenced too," Julian said softly.

The contessa turned toward the window, sunlight catching the silver threads in her hair. "I'm afraid I may have led him to his death," she admitted, her voice hollow with regret. "When I showed him the family archives, I never imagined..."

Sofia crossed her legs. "You believe whoever killed Professor Bellanti might come after others who know about Operation Laguna?"

"I know they will." Adriana turned back, her eyes showing genuine fear. "Marco wasn't the only one researching these connections. There's an archivist at the Biblioteca Marciana, Gabriella Ricci. And a former banker, Paolo Zanetti, who provided Marco with financial records." Her hands clasped together tightly. "If they're systematically eliminating anyone who knows about the modern operation..."

"You could be a target as well," Julian said, straightening in his chair.

The contessa's laugh held no humor. "My family has survived the fall of the Republic, Napoleon's armies, two world wars, and countless political upheavals, Agent Varga. We know how to protect ourselves." She gestured to the walls around them. "This palazzo has withstood sieges before."

"Nevertheless," Natasha cut in, "protection would be advisable. These people have already demonstrated they're willing to kill in public places."

"I'm more concerned for the others," Adriana insisted. "People without centuries of security protocols and private guards. Marco was killed because he was close to exposing something current—not just historical connections."

Sofia exchanged another glance with Julian. "What exactly did he think was being moved through these networks now?"

The contessa hesitated, clearly weighing how much to reveal. "He wasn't certain. That was what he wanted to discover. Perhaps weapons… perhaps information?”

"Kompromat," Natasha said bluntly. "Russian intelligence terminology for compromising materials."

"Speculation. But perhaps. Venice has always been a crossroads," the contessa said, nodding. "East meets West. Information flows like water through our canals, often unseen."

“The names of those you think might be in danger. Give them to me again,” Natasha commanded, her phone in hand to take notes.

"Gabriella Ricci, the archivist. Paolo Zanetti, the banker." The contessa's gaze drifted toward the window again, watching a gondola glide past on the Grand Canal. "And perhaps Sofia herself, now that she's been seen pursuing those connected to the Hidden Lion."

Sofia felt Julian's eyes on her, concern evident in his expression. She kept her face carefully blank.

"We need to warn these people immediately," Julian said, rising to his feet. The movement was too sudden; he winced as pain flared in his injured arm.

"Agent Varga is injured?" The contessa missed nothing.

"A minor inconvenience," Julian replied, brushing off her concern.

Natasha was already on her phone, speaking in rapid, clipped tones to someone at Interpol headquarters. The words "protective custody" and "immediate extraction" floated across the room.

Sofia studied the contessa, who looked resignedly determined. The woman had the self-possession of an ally. She seemed forthcoming.

But was it a ploy?

Natasha hung up, turning to them.

"I'm taking Zanetti," Natasha announced, tucking her phone away. "Headquarters wants him secured at once—his banking connections make him our highest priority target."

Julian nodded. "Sofia and I can handle the archivist then."

"No." Natasha's voice cut through the room. "You're needed at the crime scene. Local police are reopening the library for our specialists." She turned to Sofia, her eyes cold. "Costa will handle the archivist."

Sofia raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"Unless you've forgotten how to run protection detail in your... sabbatical." The word dripped with disdain.

The contessa watched this exchange with the caution of a politician.

"I remember procedure perfectly well," Sofia replied evenly. "I'm simply surprised you'd trust me with it."

Natasha stepped closer, her voice dropping to a register only Sofia could hear. "Trust has nothing to do with it. We're short-staffed until the Brussels team arrives this evening, and I need warm bodies in Venice. Even compromised ones."

"Agent Kovic," the contessa interrupted. "Perhaps you'd care to share your concerns with all of us?"

Natasha straightened. "No concerns, Contessa. Merely operational details."

"Indeed?" Adriana's eyebrow arched. "Because it appeared you were questioning Ms. Costa's competence. A woman who, I might remind you, discovered Marco's body when your organization hadn't even noticed him missing."

Sofia felt a flash of grudging appreciation for the contessa's defense, unexpected as it was.

Natasha's jaw tightened. "Ms. Costa's history with Interpol is... complicated."

"I find complicated histories are often the most valuable," the contessa replied smoothly. "My family's certainly is." She rose, moving to her desk where she grabbed a small card. "The archivist, Gabriella, works the morning shift. This will grant you access to the staff areas."

Sofia accepted the card, noting the Morosini family crest embossed in gold. "Thank you, Contessa."

"One last thing," Natasha said, her voice unforgiving as she turned back to Sofia. "Remember you have no official standing in this investigation. You're a civilian consultant, nothing more. If you compromise this operation in any way, I'll personally ensure you face obstruction charges." Her eyes narrowed. "Your history of reckless decision-making doesn't inspire confidence."

The contessa's eyes widened at this public rebuke, her gaze sliding between the two women with new interest.

"Are we quite finished?" Sofia asked, her voice deceptively mild despite the heat rising in her chest.

Julian cleared his throat. "I'll coordinate with Sofia after examining the crime scene. We can rendezvous at the Marciana by noon."

Natasha's cold gaze lingered on Sofia for another moment before she gave a curt nod. "Acceptable. I want hourly check-ins." She turned to the contessa with a perfunctory smile that never reached her eyes. "Thank you for your cooperation, Contessa Morosini. I'll have officers stationed outside your palazzo as a precaution."

"How thoughtful. Though I assure you, the Morosini family has survived far worse than shadowy conspiracies."

As Natasha departed abruptly, Julian touched Sofia's elbow lightly. "Be careful," he murmured. "If these people really are connected to noble houses, they'll have resources throughout the city."

"I know Venice," Sofia assured him, though the warmth of his concern lingered on her skin.

The contessa approached, her silk skirts swishing against marble floors. "Ms. Costa," she said quietly, "there's something else you should know about Gabriella Ricci." She glanced toward the door where Natasha had exited. "Something I preferred not to share with your... colleague."

Sofia nodded, waiting.

"Gabriella was more than just Marco's research assistant." The contessa's voice dropped further. "They were involved romantically. Discreetly, of course—Marco was technically still married, though separated for years."

"You think she might know more than she's told anyone?"

"I think," the contessa replied carefully, "that people share secrets with lovers they wouldn't put in official records."

Julian and Sofia looked at one another.

"I'll find her," Sofia promised.

The contessa nodded, then moved to a small desk where she wrote something on a cream-colored card. "My private number," she explained, handing it to Sofia. "Not my assistant, not my secretary. Me. If you discover anything about who's behind this... operation, I want to know right away."

Sofia pocketed the card, studying the noblewoman's face. "Why did you really hire me to authenticate those documents, Contessa? You must have suspected they might be dangerous."

A shadow passed across Adriana's face. "Because Marco insisted… He’d heard of your work in Spain. But also, even if that truth is... uncomfortable, I want to know of my family’s involvement. Be safe, Sofia.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Chapter 9

Alone again, Sofia strode through the morning streets of Venice, processing the conversation with the contessa. The city had awakened fully now, its calli filling with locals hurrying to work and tourists consulting maps with bewildered expressions. She moved with purpose, weaving through the current like a fish swimming upstream.

Sofia paused at the corner where Campo Santa Maria Formosa opened before her, its trapezoidal shape a feature of Venice's organic growth over centuries. The campo bustled with morning activity—locals buying fresh produce from wooden stalls, elderly men in wool caps gathering on benches to discuss politics with animated hand gestures that were as much a part of Italian communication as words themselves.

She passed a bakery where the scent of fresh focaccia al formaggio wafted through an open window—not the tourist version, but the authentic Venetian specialty with its distinctive crisp exterior and soft, cheese-laden interior. A neighborhood cat dozed on a sun-warmed windowsill, embodying the Italian concept of dolce far niente—the sweetness of doing nothing—a philosophy that had sustained Venetians through their city's long decline from maritime superpower to living museum.

Emerging onto a small canal, Sofia observed how the morning light played across the water. The phenomenon Venetians called acqua alta—high water—had receded overnight, but evidence remained in the salt lines marking buildings' lower stones.

A row of gondolas bobbed gently at their moorings, their asymmetrical design a masterpiece of engineering. Few tourists realized that gondolas were deliberately constructed with one side larger than the other—a counterbalance to the gondolier's weight that allowed it to go straight despite being propelled from one side only.

Sofia approached a traditional gondolier whose face was worn with sun lines, his skin tanned to leather by decades on the water. Unlike his colleagues catering to tourists, he wore no striped shirt or straw hat—just simple work clothes and the gold earring that historically marked Venetian watermen.

"To the Biblioteca Marciana," Sofia said, fisting several euro notes from her wallet. "I need to arrive quickly and... discreetly."

The gondolier's face remained unreadable, but his dark eyes assessed her with the shrewd intelligence of a man who had ferried both tourists and locals through these waters for decades. He named a price significantly higher than the standard tourist fare.

Sofia didn't haggle. "Double that if you can get me there without being followed."

Interest flickered in the old man's eyes. He pocketed the money with a brief nod, then extended a calloused hand to help her into the vessel. "Signora knows our city has eyes everywhere, yes?"

"That's precisely why I'm hiring you instead of taking the vaporetto," Sofia replied, settling onto the gondola's cushioned seat. The gondola rocked gently beneath her, water lapping against its lacquered sides.

The gondolier untied the mooring rope, pushing away from the dock with a single powerful thrust of his oar. "I am Nico," he offered, guiding the gondola into the center of the canal.

Sofia watched as he navigated the vessel with his single oar, reading the waterways like a familiar text. Rather than taking the most direct route toward San Marco, he turned the gondola into a side canal barely wide enough for a single boat.

"A longer way," he explained, sensing her question. "But one less traveled by those who might watch."

The gondola slipped through the hidden Venice that tourists rarely glimpsed—tight canals where laundry hung from windows, where residents called greetings to each other across the water, where doorways opened directly onto canal level, their lower steps permanently submerged. Here was the living, breathing city beneath the postcard.

"You have enemies in Venice?" Nico asked conversationally, his powerful strokes guiding them beneath a low stone bridge.

"Not personally," Sofia replied, scanning the windows above for watching eyes. "But I'm seeking someone who might."

The gondolier nodded as if this explained everything.

They emerged briefly into a wider canal where morning deliveries were underway—boats laden with produce for restaurants, with linens for hotels, with all the supplies needed to maintain the illusion of effortless luxury.

The Biblioteca Marciana stood on the edge of Piazza San Marco, its Renaissance façade a monument to Venetian cultural pride. Sofia thanked Nico, stepped off his watercraft, and approached. She paused at the entrance, scanning the piazza for exit routes and potential surveillance points.

Inside, the library hummed with the studious energy of scholars and researchers beginning their day. Sofia bypassed the public reading rooms, heading directly to the staff entrance where she presented the contessa's card to a security guard. The man studied it before gesturing toward a corridor lined with offices.

"Dottoressa Ricci?" Sofia inquired in perfect Italian.

"Third door," he replied, his eyes lingering on the Morosini crest on the card. "The manuscript room."

The manuscript room door stood partially open, revealing a space lined with climate-controlled cabinets and examination tables bathed in specially filtered light. Sofia entered to find the room empty—no sign of Gabriella Ricci, just a half-empty coffee cup cooling beside an open manuscript.

"Scusi," Sofia called, glancing around the silent room. Papers lay scattered across one table, a pen resting on them as if its owner had stepped away momentarily. A handbag hung from the back of a chair—expensive leather but well-worn. Present, but not its owner.

Unease prickled along Sofia's spine. She moved quickly back to the corridor, intercepting a young woman carrying a stack of preservation folders.

"I'm looking for Dottoressa Ricci," Sofia said, keeping her voice casual while showing the contessa's card. "We had an appointment."

The woman's eyes widened at the Morosini crest. "She was here earlier. I saw her about twenty minutes ago, but—" She frowned, adjusting her grip on the folders. "It was strange. She received a phone call, then left in a hurry. Didn't even take her bag."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, but she seemed upset." The woman hesitated. "Marco's death hit her hard, you know. They were... close."

Sofia nodded. "Any idea who called her?"

"No, but Matteo might know. He works the reception desk. They're friends."

Sofia thanked her and moved swiftly through the library's corridors. The reception desk stood in the main hall, staffed by a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a meticulously trimmed beard.

"Matteo?" Sofia inquired, approaching the desk. When he nodded, she produced the contessa's card once more. "I need information about Gabriella Ricci. I understand she left suddenly after receiving a call."

The man studied the card, then Sofia's face. "Are you police?" he asked.

"I'm working with the contessa to ensure Gabriella's safety," Sofia replied, not quite answering his question. "Given what happened to Professor Bellanti, we're concerned."

Matteo's expression softened at the mention of Bellanti. "The call came about twenty minutes ago. I didn't hear all of it, but she went pale. Said something about meeting someone at Caffè Florian." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "She was frightened, signora. I offered to go with her, but she refused. Said it would be worse if she wasn't alone. You’ll recognize her from her burgundy coat."

Sofia felt her pulse quicken. "Did she mention who she was meeting?"

"No, but..." He trailed off momentarily. "She grabbed a file from her desk before leaving. One of the restricted documents she and Marco had been studying.”

"Thank you," Sofia said, already moving toward the exit. "Which direction is Caffè Florian from here?"

"Piazza San Marco, west side," Matteo called after her. "The oldest café in Venice."

Sofia burst through the library's heavy doors. She blinked against the sudden sunlight, scanning the bustling piazza. Tourists clustered around the basilica's gleaming domes while locals navigated the crowd.

Movement caught her eye—a flash of burgundy that matched the description of Gabriella's coat Matteo had given her. There, at the edge of the square, a dark-haired woman clutching a folder to her chest. She walked with the hurried steps of someone trying not to run, constantly peering over her shoulder.

Sofia started across the piazza, weaving between tour groups and street vendors. As she closed the distance, she saw Gabriella's face clearly—high cheekbones, olive skin gone pale with fear, dark eyes wide and darting. The archivist reached the grimy entrance to an alleyway, pausing at its mouth.

Then Sofia saw him—a man in a charcoal suit stepping from the shadows. Sunlight glinted off something metallic in his hand—a pistol, pressed against Gabriella's ribs as he seized her elbow. The archivist's mouth opened in a silent cry as the man roughly shoved her into the alley's darkness.

Sofia’s heart skipped. She cursed.

No time to wait.

Sofia broke into a dead sprint, dodging a startled couple, vaulting over a café table. Her boots struck the cobblestones intently, each stride eating the distance between her and the alley's entrance. Her hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn't there.

"Polizia!" she shouted, hoping the false claim might buy precious seconds.

She rounded the corner into the alley, momentum carrying her forward as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Gabriella struggled against her captor twenty meters ahead, the folder's contents spilling onto damp stones. The man turned at Sofia's approach, his gun hand swinging toward this new threat.

Sofia didn't slow. Seven meters from them, she grabbed a metal trash can lid, swinging it hard. It struck the gunman's wrist with a clang, sending the weapon skittering across the street.

The man cursed, shoving Gabriella aside to face Sofia directly. He took up a fighter's posture—weight balanced, hands raised. Professional training, military or private security.

"Run!" Sofia shouted to Gabriella, who stood frozen against the alley wall. "Get to the piazza!"

The archivist waited only a moment before bolting toward the alley entrance, clutching what papers she'd managed to save. The gunman made to follow, but Sofia blocked his path.

Then another curse in Italian. Four more men emerged from a side alley, all of them wearing masks.

Not just any masks—the distinctive white-faced volto masks of Venetian Carnevale fame, their blank features eerily expressionless in the alley's half-light. Each man wore identical black suits beneath their disguises, moving with the unity of those accustomed to working together.

Sofia's tactical assessment took milliseconds. Five against one. Narrow confines. Limited escape routes. The odds were catastrophically bad.

Sofia pivoted sharply, lunging toward the archivist who had frozen in renewed terror at the appearance of the masked men. Sofia grabbed Gabriella's wrist, yanking her forward as the first attacker closed the distance. His fist whistled past Sofia's ear as she ducked, running toward the alley's entrance.

Gabriella gasped, stumbling as Sofia dragged her forward.

Sofia hissed, pulling her around a corner just as a bullet struck where they'd been standing heartbeats before. Chips of masonry exploded outward, stinging Sofia's cheek.

They burst from the alley into the blazing sunlight of the piazza, where hundreds of tourists provided both cover and complications. Sofia didn't slow, keeping Gabriella's wrist in an iron grip as she wove through startled onlookers, heading toward the densest part of the crowd.

"Police!" Sofia shouted in Italian, then English and German, creating a ripple of confusion that parted the tourists before them. "Make way!"

She risked a glance back. Two of the figures had followed them into the piazza, their carnival masks grotesquely incongruous in the sunlight. But they paused at the edge of the crowd, clearly reluctant to pursue with so many witnesses.

"There," Sofia decided, abruptly changing direction toward the basilica's main entrance, where a tour group was forming. "Stay close to me."

Gabriella nodded, her face ashen but her steps steadier now. They slipped into the middle of the German tour group, Sofia switching effortlessly to flawless Bavarian-accented German as she addressed the confused guide.

"Polizei," she murmured. "These people are dangerous. Get your group inside, quickly."

The guide's eyes widened, but she responded with professional calm, ushering her charges through the basilica's massive doors with increased urgency. Sofia kept Gabriella pressed close to her side as they moved with the flow, entering the cool, incense-scented sanctuary of San Marco.

As Sofia looked back, the last of the masked men slipped back into the shadows of the alley, disappearing from view.

Close.

Too close.
“Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t think so,” Ricci whispered, her voice shaking. “Who were they? Did—were they the ones who killed Bellanti?”

Sofia didn’t answer the direct question. Instead, she insisted, “Come with me. Do what I say, and we’ll both make it out alive.”

Chapter 10

The German tour guide's voice echoed through the basilica's vast interior, rising above the hushed murmurs of other visitors. Sofia guided Gabriella deeper into the ancient church, where golden mosaics glimmered in the light filtering through alabaster windows. Byzantine saints gazed down from the domed ceiling with solemn, jewel-like eyes.

"Stay in the middle of the group," Sofia instructed, her hand never leaving Gabriella's elbow as they moved with the flow of tourists. The archivist clutched her rescued papers to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white with tension.

The tour paused before the Pala d'Oro—the magnificent golden altarpiece studded with nearly two thousand gems. As the guide explained its origins, Sofia used the moment to scan their surroundings, searching for each exit, each corner where a threat might lurk. Her gaze swept across the basilica's shadowy recesses, the side chapels, the staircases leading to the upper galleries.

No white carnival masks. No men in identical suits. Just tourists with their cameras and pilgrims with their prayers.

Sofia felt Gabriella trembling beside her. The woman's breathing had become shallow and rapid—the beginning stages of panic. Sofia recognized the signs immediately.

"Look at me," she commanded quietly, turning Gabriella away from the group to face a mosaic-covered wall. "You're safe right now. Focus on my voice."

Gabriella's dark eyes were dilated with fear, her olive skin ashen. "They... they killed Marco. They'll kill me too. I shouldn't have taken those papers—"

"Breathe with me," Sofia interrupted, taking the woman's hands in hers. "In through your nose, slowly count to four." She demonstrated, watching as Gabriella struggled to follow. "Now hold for two. Out through your mouth for six."

The archivist's first attempt was shaky, but Sofia nodded encouragement. "Again. In for four..."

As they continued the breathing exercise, Sofia felt a surge of empathy wash over her. Gabriella's terror—the way her hands shook, the haunted look in her eyes—was achingly familiar. Sofia had seen that same expression in her own mirror in the months after her parents' "accident."

A memory surfaced, sharp and clear: Nuno finding her hyperventilating in the Interpol bathroom after she'd reviewed the official accident report for the twentieth time. Instead of platitudes, he'd simply sat beside her on the cold tile floor, taken her hands in his lined ones, and spoken in the calm tones he used when teaching her a particularly difficult dialect.

"Name five things you can see," he'd said. "In different languages. The more obscure, the better."

Sofia had stared at him, bewildered, but something in his steady gaze had anchored her. "Chair," Sofia had replied hoarsely. "Lámpara," she'd continued in Spanish, looking at the lighting. "Fenêtre" in French for the small window. "Deur" in Dutch for the door. "Pavimento" in Italian for the floor.

The memory turned into inspiration. Sofia squeezed Gabriella's hands gently.

"Tell me five things you can see right now," she instructed. "In different languages if you know them."

Gabriella blinked in confusion, but the surprising request broke through her spiraling panic.

"Mosaico," she whispered in Italian, looking at the glittering wall beside them. "Tourists," she added in English. "Luce," returning to Italian for the light streaming through the windows. She hesitated, searching for words.

"Two more," Sofia encouraged.

"Altar," Gabriella said, her breathing steadier. "And... and you." The last word came with the ghost of a smile—fragile but there.

Sofia nodded approval. "Better. Now, those papers—"

"We can't talk here," Gabriella interrupted, her voice low but urgent. She shook her head. “I wasn’t careful. He wasn’t careful—that’s why he’s dead. And I will be too…”

“No, you won’t,” Sofia said firmly, her voice steel. “I promise you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Gabriella stared at her, her eyes widening. “P-promise?”

Sofia didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I promise.”

The tour group began moving again, shuffling toward the basilica's treasury. Sofia guided Gabriella with them, maintaining their position in the middle of the cluster.

"How did they find you this morning?" Sofia asked, watching the crowd ahead of them.

"A phone call. A man claiming to be Marco's colleague said he had information about who killed him." Gabriella's voice caught. "I knew it might be a trap, but I thought... I thought I could learn something. Help find justice for Marco."

Sofia nodded, understanding the impulse all too well. "The papers you saved—what are they?"

Gabriella clutched the disarrayed folder tighter. "Shipping manifests. Marco found discrepancies—cargo listed in private records but absent from official documentation. He traced the pattern back decades, all the way to Operation Laguna."

"And recently? The current operation?"

"That's what got him killed." Gabriella's voice turned to a whisper. “It’s… the deaths. Three of them. He said he found a connection. But I don’t know what.”

“You know about the deaths?”

She nodded adamantly. “He included me in most of the research.”

The tour group paused again in a side chapel. Sofia guided Gabriella toward a bench partially concealed by a marble column.

"Tell me about these deaths," Sofia said softly.

Gabriella opened the folder, revealing glimpses of yellowed paper covered in faded ink. "The first was Alessandro Visconti, 1976," she whispered. "Commercial attaché at the Italian embassy in Moscow. Drowned during a sailing trip near Sardinia. His boat was found, but his body never recovered."

Sofia tilted her head, encouraging her to continue.

"The second, Elisa Mantovani, 1982. Investigative journalist who specialized in financial crimes. Car accident on the Amalfi Coast—brake failure, they said." Gabriella's voice grew stronger as she recited facts. "The third was Roberto Farnese, 1995. Banking executive who handled accounts for several noble families. Fell from his balcony in Milan. Ruled a suicide."

"And Marco connected them all to Operation Laguna?"

Gabriella glanced nervously over her shoulder before leaning closer. "He was certain they were connected. But the Farnese case... that's what changed everything. Marco believed he could solve it. Actually solve a murder that happened nearly thirty years ago."

Sofia's pulse quickened. "What made him think that?"

"A misfiled report." Gabriella's fingers tightened around the folder. "He found it by accident while researching something else entirely—buried in archives where it shouldn't have been."

"What kind of report?"

"Police, I think. I never saw it myself." She shrugged helplessly. "Marco became fixated on it, said it contained details that contradicted the official suicide ruling. Evidence that had been deliberately overlooked."

Sofia studied the archivist's face. "Do you know where this report is now?"

"No. Marco kept it separate from our other research. For safety, he said." Gabriella's eyes darted toward the basilica's entrance. "But I know where he found it."

"Not the San Teodoro library where he died?"

"No. He went there later, searching for additional context." Gabriella shook her head. "The original report was discovered in the state archives beneath the Procuratie Vecchie—the old offices of the Procurators of Saint Mark. Most scholars don't even know those archives still exist."

Sofia's mind raced. If Marco had found evidence contradicting the official ruling on Farnese's death, it could explain why he'd been killed. Solving a thirty-year-old murder might expose whoever was behind the modern incarnation of Operation Laguna.

"We need to get you somewhere safe," Sofia decided, rising from the bench. "Then I need to see those archives."

As they rejoined the group of tourists moving toward the basilica's exit, Sofia noticed a disturbance near the main doors. Two uniformed officers were speaking with the basilica's security staff, their postures aggressive. One officer glanced in their direction, then spoke rapidly into his radio.

"Change of plans," Sofia muttered, steering Gabriella toward a side chapel. "They've alerted the local police. We need another exit. I don’t like this. We don’t know who’s involved.”

“You think the police are a danger?”

“I don’t know. Just…”

Gabriella's eyes widened with renewed fear. "There's a service door through the sacristy. Marco showed me once when we were researching the basilica's restoration history."

Sofia followed Gabriella's lead as they slipped behind a group of Japanese tourists, using their clustering bodies as visual cover. The sacristy door was unmarked, a simple wooden barrier almost invisible against the backdrop of Byzantine splendor.

They slipped through into a cramped corridor where the air was heavy with incense and beeswax. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, containing the priests' vestments and liturgical items. At the far end, a smaller door led to what appeared to be a storage area.

"This way," Gabriella whispered.

The storage room opened onto a dizzying staircase that spiraled downward. Sofia could smell the distinctive dampness that permeated Venice's lower levels, where crumbling foundations met the lagoon's brackish waters. Gabriella moved with surprising confidence through the semi-darkness, her fingers trailing along the stone wall for guidance.

"The priests use this passage during acqua alta," she explained in a hushed voice. "It connects to a courtyard behind the basilica."

They emerged into daylight, arriving in a secluded courtyard where potted lemon trees created dappled shadows on flagstones. A single gate led to what appeared to be a service alley.

Sofia peered through a crack in the gate showing the passage beyond. Empty. She gestured Gabriella forward, and they slipped into the alley, closing the gate behind them.

"We need to keep moving," Sofia said, moving away from the basilica. They wove through narrow calli, past tiny neighborhood shrines where votive candles flickered in alcoves, beneath picturesque bridges.

Once Sofia was confident they'd lost any pursuit, she slowed their pace, allowing Gabriella to catch her breath in a deserted campo where pigeons pecked at invisible crumbs between cobblestones.

"Those archives you mentioned," Sofia said, watching Gabriella tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear with uncertain fingers. "Could you take me there? Show me where Marco found the report?"

Gabriella clutched the rescued folder against her chest, her eyes darting nervously around the empty square. "Now? But those men—"

"Are looking for you, not the archives," Sofia said gently. "I’m realizing the safest place for you right now might be with me. The report Marco found might be the key to understanding why he was killed. If we can find it—or even just locate where he discovered it—we might identify who's behind this."

"I don't know if I can get you in," Gabriella admitted. "The archives beneath the Procuratie are restricted. I only accessed them because Marco had special permission for his research."

"The Contessa Morosini might help," Sofia suggested, touching the card in her pocket. "She seems invested in finding Marco's killer."

Gabriella frowned. "The contessa? Marco didn't trust her completely. He said the Morosini family was too deeply connected to everything he was investigating." She paused, then added in a whisper, "He told me if anything happened to him, I should be careful who I trust among the noble families."

Sofia absorbed this information, rethinking her assessment of the contessa. Perhaps Adriana's helpful demeanor concealed deeper motives. "Was there anyone Marco did trust? Anyone who helped with his research besides you?"

Gabriella's eyes lit up suddenly. "There's an old professor friend of his. But the man is..." she trailed off, her expression shifting. "He’s very eccentric. Very, very strange. And he's American."

"American?" Sofia's interest was piqued. An outsider might have different loyalties than the Venetians.

"Professor Daniel Blackwood. He taught at Columbia before retiring to Venice fifteen years ago. Marco consulted him frequently about Cold War intelligence operations." Gabriella continued, "He lives in an old monastery on San Michele—yes, the cemetery island. Converted part of it into a private residence."

"Living among the dead," Sofia mused. "Fitting for someone researching buried secrets."

"Blackwood is... difficult," Gabriella added. "He refuses most visitors. Speaks mainly in riddles and literary quotations. Some say his brilliant mind was damaged during his intelligence work, others that he simply enjoys confounding people." She shook her head. "But Marco swore the man knows more about Operation Laguna than anyone alive."

Sofia made a quick decision. "Can you reach him? Would he see me?"

"Perhaps. He had genuine affection for Marco." Gabriella bit her lip. "But you’d need to approach carefully. He's paranoid about surveillance—no phones allowed near his residence, no electronic devices of any kind. And he insists visitors bring a specific offering."

"What kind of offering?"

"A bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Maker's Mark, specifically. And..." Gabriella's cheeks colored slightly. "A puzzle. Something new he hasn't solved before."

Sofia raised an eyebrow. "A puzzle?"

"He says it's to keep his mind sharp. Marco always brought him mathematical paradoxes or linguistic games." A ghost of a smile touched Gabriella's lips. "Last time, it was a centuries-old Venetian cipher that Marco found in the archives. Blackwood solved it in under an hour."

Sofia was already formulating a plan. "I’ll need to get to San Michele without being followed. The vaporetto would be too exposed." She glanced at her watch. “You think he can help us solve a thirty-year-old murder?”

Gabriella flinched but nodded. “If anyone can, it’s him. He can get you into those archives, at least. As long as he agrees to speak to you at all. He doesn’t… really like women.”

Sofia blinked. “Excuse me?”

The archivist shrugged. “I told you. He’s an odd one.”

Chapter 11

Sunlight bled across the Venetian lagoon in veins of amber and rose, the light still too weak to burn through the mist that clung to the water's surface. Sofia sat perfectly still in the gondola, watching as the island of San Michele emerged from the fog—first its cypress trees, then the encircling terracotta walls that contained Venice's dead. The gondolier worked in silence, his strokes hardly disturbing the glassy surface of the water.

Each movement brought them closer to the island cemetery where Daniel Blackwood had made his unusual home among marble angels and forgotten names.

Tombstones gleamed wetly through the mist. Sofia pulled her jacket tighter against the morning chill, feeling the weight of the bourbon bottle nestled in her satchel alongside the custom puzzle box. Her gondolier—not Nico this time, but another older man whose face had the permanent squint of someone who had spent decades navigating these waters—spoke only once during their journey.

"People don't visit San Michele at dawn," he had said when she'd hired him, his dialect thick as honey. "Only the dead are awake."

Sofia had merely shrugged and paid his asking price.

Now, as they approached the island's dock, she studied the walls of the cemetery rising above her. San Michele had served as Venice's burial ground since the early 1800s—an island dedicated entirely to the dead, where bodies rested until space demands required their exhumation and relocation.

"You want me to wait?" the gondolier asked as they bumped against the dock.

"No," Sofia replied, rising carefully. "I don't know how long this will take."

The man accepted the extra euros she pressed into his leathery palm. "The next vaporetto comes at ten-thirty. Or you can ring that bell"—he gestured toward a small brass bell mounted on a post at the dock's edge—"if you need to leave sooner. Someone will come."

Sofia stepped onto the dock, her boots making hollow sounds against the aged wood. "Grazie."

She watched as the gondolier pushed away, his black vessel disappearing into the thinning mist like something returned to dream. The silence felt absolute—no cars, no tourist chatter, not even the ubiquitous cooing of pigeons.

Julian had argued vehemently against her coming alone.

"This man is connected to Bellanti's research—the same research that got him killed," he'd insisted, his blue eyes fierce with concern. "At least let me come with you."

"You need to stay with Gabriella," Sofia had countered, her tone brooking no argument. "She's our only living witness, and those men are still looking for her." She had softened then, just a touch, seeing the worry in the crinkles around his eyes. "Blackwood won't speak freely if I bring an Interpol agent. You know that."

In truth, there was another reason Sofia had insisted on coming alone. She was tired of Natasha's watchful eyes, tired of navigating the complex interplay between past and present. Here, alone on an island of the dead, she could think clearly without the weight of old histories.

Sofia turned away from the water and began walking along the path that wound through the cemetery. Gabriella had provided detailed directions to Blackwood's residence—a former monastery attached to the Chiesa di San Michele, which had been standing since the fifteenth century. According to her, the American professor had converted part of the monks' old quarters into a living space, with the permission of authorities who appreciated his generous donations to preservation efforts.

She moved through the cemetery's orderly rows, past graves of varying grandeur—some marked by simple headstones, others by elaborate family mausoleums with weeping angels and solemn saints. The Russians had their section, as did the Protestants. The Greeks had theirs. Poets, composers, and artists clustered in honored locations. Even in death, Venice maintained its social hierarchies.

The mist was lifting as Sofia followed the path deeper into the island. Cypress trees created vertical lines against the brightening sky, while ivy crept across walls with patient determination. Birds began to sing—hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as day fully asserted itself.

She found the monastery where it had stood for centuries—a structure connected to the church by a covered walkway. Unlike the church's maintained appearance, the monastery showed signs of disrepair—crumbling corners, moss-covered stones, windows whose glass had gone milky with age.

She adjusted her satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of the Maker's Mark bourbon she'd purchased from a late-night convenience store near her hotel. Beside it, the puzzle box rested in its velvet pouch—a custom-built replica Gabriella had advised.

If Blackwood was as brilliant as the archivist claimed, it would keep him occupied for at least twenty minutes—enough time for Sofia to establish a rapport and begin her questioning.

She crossed the courtyard, boots crunching against gravel and fallen leaves. A bird startled from a nearby bush, wings beating frantically as it ascended toward the clouds. Sofia watched it go, then turned back to the partially open door.

No knocker, no bell. Just rough wood that had guarded this threshold since doges ruled from the Palazzo Ducale. Sofia pushed it open wider, the rusted hinges protesting with a low groan that sounded through the space beyond.

"Professor Blackwood?" she called, her voice seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness.

No answer came, but she could smell lamp oil and old books. Sofia stepped inside, finding herself in a vaulted corridor whose floor had been tread into shallow depressions by centuries of monastic footsteps. Thin shafts of light penetrated through small, high windows. The walls had ghostly rectangles where paintings or crucifixes had once hung, now long removed.

She moved deeper into the building, following the glow that spilled from a doorway at the corridor's end. The smell of books grew stronger, joined by tobacco, coffee, and something else she couldn't immediately identify.

A low voice spoke from within the lit room—a masculine voice reciting what sounded like poetry. Sofia approached quietly, not wanting to startle him.

She entered Blackwood's study. There, illuminated by a single oil lamp that cast more shadows than light, sat Daniel Blackwood himself, hunched over an open book like some medieval monk transcribing sacred texts. He didn't look up at her entrance.

"Professor Blackwood," Sofia said, stepping farther into the chamber.

The man continued reading for several heartbeats more before finally lifting his head. Silver hair sprang from his scalp in untamed tufts, framing a face of deep lines and hollows. His eyes, when they fixed on Sofia, were a startling clarity of blue—the piercing intelligence in them at odds with his dishevelment. He wore a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that might have been fashionable when Italy was still a monarchy, mismatched slippers on his feet, and reading glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose.

"You're not Bellanti," he observed, his accent purely American—New England, Sofia noted. Harvard or Yale, most likely, with academic refinement. He removed his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief that looked no cleaner than the rest of him. "I don't recall ordering a research assistant. Particularly not a female one."

Sofia maintained her composure, having been warned of his difficult nature. "My name is Sofia Costa. Marco Bellanti sent me."

Blackwood snorted, replacing his glasses. "Marco Bellanti does nothing without purpose or explanation, and he certainly wouldn't send a woman to do intellectual heavy lifting. Who are you, really, and why are you disturbing my morning?"

Sofia noted the present tense when speaking of Bellanti—he didn't yet know. She reached into her satchel and produced the bottle of Maker's Mark, setting it on the edge of his cluttered desk.

"I believe this is a traditional offering," she said, maintaining eye contact despite his dismissive wave. "Along with this." She placed the puzzle box beside the bourbon, its polished wooden surface gleaming. "A custom-built replica of the cipher from the Doge Lorenzo correspondence. The one Marco was working on."

Interest flickered across Blackwood's face despite his obvious attempt to remain impassive. His fingers—long and ink-stained like a Renaissance scholar's—moved toward the puzzle box before he caught himself.

"A poor reproduction," he muttered, though his eyes lingered on the box's intricate patterns. "The original used olivewood, not this... whatever this pedestrian material might be." But he reached for it nonetheless.

"Olivewood is difficult to source these days," Sofia replied. "Environmental restrictions."

Blackwood's mouth twitched. "The modern world's endless limitations." He set the puzzle box aside reluctantly and reached for the bourbon instead, examining the label. "At least you got this part right. Marco always remembers the bourbon."

Sofia registered the present tense again and steeled herself for what must come next. "Professor Blackwood," she began, her voice compassionate despite herself. "Marco Bellanti is dead."

Chapter 12

The bourbon bottle froze halfway to the desk surface. For a moment, Blackwood remained perfectly still, as if her words had transformed him into one of San Michele's marble statues. Then his shoulders slumped, the rigid academic collapsing by degrees.

"I knew there was a reason he might’ve sent a stranger… How?" The last word emerged reluctantly.

"Murdered," Sofia answered simply. "In the restricted archives of Biblioteca San Teodoro. Three nights ago."

Blackwood set the bottle down with exaggerated care, his fingers shaking against the desk edge. When he looked up at Sofia again, the arrogant dismissal had vanished from his eyes, replaced by something raw and human.

"You'd better sit," he said, gesturing to a chair half-buried under stacks of journals. "And tell me everything."

Sofia cleared the chair and seated herself, noting how the light had caught the sudden moisture in Blackwood's eyes before he blinked it away. She recounted finding Bellanti's body, described the dagger with its lion's head design, and explained the connection to the masked attackers who had pursued Gabriella Ricci.

As she spoke, Blackwood's demeanor transformed entirely. The dismissive academic was replaced by a man whose grief showed in small, telling ways—fingers that drummed anxiously against the desk, eyes that drifted to middle distance as if seeing memories rather than the room around him, a voice that had lost its sharp edges.

"Marco was a careful man," Blackwood said when she had finished. "Methodical to the point of obsession. For someone to get close enough to kill him..." He shook his head. "They must have had resources. Significant ones."

"He was researching Operation Laguna," Sofia prompted. "Gabriella Ricci said you might know more about its true nature."

Blackwood focused on Sofia with renewed intensity. "Gabriella sent you? Is she safe?"

"For now. She's with a colleague I trust."

"Good." He nodded, seemingly satisfied with this minimal assurance. "The girl has a brilliant mind, despite her… well, you know." He reached for the bourbon, uncapping it to pour a generous measure into a not-entirely-clean glass that had been serving as a paperweight. He didn't offer Sofia any.

"Operation Laguna," he said after taking a sip, "wasn't what the history books claim. It wasn't even what most of the agents involved believed it was." He pointed toward a curling map of Europe pinned to the wall, Cold War boundaries drawn in red. "On paper, it was an intelligence-gathering network using Venice's unique position and noble families as conduits between East and West. A way to move information when official channels were too closely watched."

"But it was more," Sofia said, not a question.

"Much more." Blackwood swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. " The intelligence operation was real enough, but it served primarily to conceal other activities conducted under the same umbrella—weapons transfers, financial crimes, even targeted assassinations disguised as accidents."

Sofia leaned forward. "The three deaths Bellanti was investigating."

Blackwood's eyebrows rose. "He told you about those?"

"Gabriella did. A diplomat, a journalist, and a banker—all ruled as accidents or suicide, all connected to Operation Laguna."

"Connected to what Operation Laguna became," Blackwood corrected, his voice dropping. "The official operation ended with the Cold War, but the networks remained intact. The noble families had tasted power beyond their wealth—the ability to move items, information, and influence across borders without scrutiny." He took another sip of bourbon. "Some things, once created, are not easily dismantled."

The room had grown darker as they spoke. Outside, Sofia could hear the sounds of the vaporetto arriving at San Michele's dock, bringing the day's first visitors to the cemetery.

"Marco believed Operation Laguna never truly ended," she said, watching Blackwood's face for confirmation.

"Marco was right. The same networks continued operating long after their official dissolution, adapted for post–Cold War opportunities. The same families, the same channels, but serving new masters with new products."

"And these three deaths—they were connected how?"

"They discovered parts of the truth." Blackwood set his glass down. "The diplomat uncovered weapons shipments disguised as embassy pouches. The journalist traced financial irregularities to specific noble families. And the banker... The banker knew the most dangerous truth of all—that Operation Laguna had evolved beyond private enterprise into something with official sanction. Certain governments found these existing networks... convenient for operations they preferred to keep at arm's length."

The implications settled heavily in the space between them. If Blackwood was right, they weren't investigating mere criminals or even corrupt nobility—they were facing operations with government protection.

"And Bellanti discovered this connection," Sofia concluded.

"Marco found proof," Blackwood corrected, his voice firm. "Not theories or suspicions—concrete evidence linking the original operation to current activities. That's why they killed him." The professor's face seemed to have aged ten years in the telling. "He was too clever for his own good. Always was."

Outside, the wind had risen, rattling the windowpanes, but Sofia hardly noticed, her mind racing to connect what Blackwood had revealed with the pieces she'd already gathered.

"What exactly did he find?" she pressed. "What evidence was worth killing for?"

Blackwood's eyes met hers across the desk, now shadowed with something that might have been fear. "He found the full police report on the banker's death—the one that supposedly vanished from all archives. The one that proved it wasn't suicide at all."

Blackwood rose from his chair with surprising grace for a man his age, moving to a bookcase that looked no different from the dozen others lining his study. His fingers traced the spine of a Dante before sliding to its left, pressing against what appeared to be the wooden frame.

A soft click broke the silence. Sofia watched, pulse quickening, as a section of the bookcase slid aside, revealing a hidden compartment no larger than a shoebox built into the wall. From this secret space, Blackwood withdrew a manila folder, its edges frayed with age, secured with a faded red string that had been tied and retied countless times over the years.

"The complete 1995 police report on Roberto Farnese's death," Blackwood said, holding the folder with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics. "The one that was thought to have vanished from all official archives."

Sofia's eyes widened. She instinctively reached toward it. But he pulled it back.

"How did you get this?" she asked, her voice a.

Blackwood's mouth curved in what might have been a smile, though it held no warmth. “He trusted me with its safekeeping.”

"Professor Bellanti is already dead because of this information," Sofia said, urgency creeping into her voice. "Others may follow if we don't act quickly. Gabriella Ricci has been targeted. I need that file."

"Need," Blackwood repeated, testing the word as if examining an unfamiliar specimen. "An interesting concept. What we need versus what we earn." He set the folder aside, just beyond Sofia's reach. "Marco understood the value of intellectual exchange. He never asked for information without offering something in return."

Sofia's frustration mounted, the pressure of time bearing down on her. "People's lives are at stake," she insisted, her voice cracking. "This isn't an academic exercise."

"On the contrary," Blackwood countered, "everything is an academic exercise to those with sufficient perspective." He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew an object that made Sofia's breath catch—an intricate wooden box, similar to the puzzle she had brought but more complex, its surface carved with interconnecting patterns that seemed to shift in the unsteady lamplight.

"This," he said, placing it between them on the desk, "is a physical representation of a cipher used by Venetian diplomatic couriers during the Turkish wars. Messages of crucial importance—troop movements, alliance negotiations, assassination plots—all traveled safely because of this design." He ran his fingers lovingly over its polished surface. "Each sliding panel, when moved in the correct sequence, reveals a compartment. Each compartment contains a clue to opening the next. At its heart lies the key to decoding the full report."

"There isn't time for games," Sofia said, the edge of the desk pressing against her ribs. "Marco was killed because of what's in that folder. We need to understand what he discovered before more people die."

"Not games, Ms. Costa. Tests." Blackwood tapped the puzzle box. "Marco valued this approach. He understood that knowledge earned is knowledge respected." His eyes narrowed as he studied her face.

Sofia felt her patience fraying. The document that might explain everything—the connection between Cold War operations and present-day murders, the truth behind three deaths spanning decades—sat within arm's reach, yet remained inaccessible behind this eccentric man's intellectual barriers.

"Professor," she tried again, "I understand your caution, but the situation is urgent. The men who killed Bellanti are still active. They've already tried to abduct Gabriella Ricci. This information could help us identify them before they strike again."

Blackwood remained unmoved, his tanned face set in lines of stubbornness that had likely frustrated students and colleagues for decades. "All the more reason to ensure it passes to someone capable of using it properly." He pushed the puzzle box closer to her. "Solve this, and the report is yours. Fail, and perhaps you aren't the right person to carry Marco's work forward."

Determination flashed in Sofia's eyes as Blackwood reclined in his chair, watching her with the detached interest of a scientist. The shadows in the room stretched across the walls like fingers reaching from the past.

"Genius leaves fingerprints," Blackwood said quietly, his voice carrying in the silent chamber. "Let's see if you have any." He checked his watch. “By my estimation, it ought to take you three hours. Less. If it takes longer… I can’t trust you.”

She considered her options. Could she simply take the file from him? What if it was a dummy? He was clever. He would’ve thought of that response.

She let out a faint breath, frustration swelling.

No… No, she’d have to play by his rules or risk creating another enemy in a city where she had too few friends.

She reached over, picking up the box.

Chapter 13

“One hour and thirty-seven minutes,” she told Julian as the two of them sat in the cafe overlooking the Grand Canal. “And he was true to his word. He gave it to me.”

She placed the police report on the table between them. Evening had long since fallen, and now the two of them had reconvened.

“Ricci is safe. Natasha assigned a unit to her.”

Sofia nodded in gratitude.

“Did you get a look at the men who shot at you?”

"Just the masks," Sofia replied, reaching for the report. "White carnival masks, identical black suits. Professional. Military training, if I had to guess." She carefully untied the red string that had kept the folder's secrets bound for decades. "Whatever's in here got three people killed over thirty years—and now Bellanti too."

Julian leaned closer, his eyes reflecting the cafe's amber lights as Sofia spread the pages across the table. The police report was surprisingly thick—forensic photographs, witness statements, detailed timelines, all meticulously compiled.

"Farnese's death was ruled a suicide," Julian muttered, looking at the official conclusion on the final page. "Jumped from his balcony after financial troubles and mounting debt."

Sofia shook her head, pointing to handwritten notes in the margins. "Look here—the investigating officer documented inconsistencies but was overruled by his superiors." Her finger traced the ink. "Bruising patterns inconsistent with suicide. Signs of struggle in the apartment. An unidentified fingerprint on the balcony railing that was never matched."

Julian's expression darkened as he examined a crime scene photograph showing Farnese's body on the pavement below his luxury apartment. "Someone went to considerable trouble to make this look self-inflicted."

"And then buried the evidence," Sofia added, turning to the next page where official signatures authorized the case's closure. "The date this was signed—look familiar?"

Julian's eyes widened. "Three days after Operation Laguna was officially terminated."

"Exactly." Sofia paused as a waiter passed their table. "Whatever Farnese discovered about the operation was dangerous enough that someone needed him silenced immediately, even as they were supposedly shutting everything down."

She flipped back through the report, stopping at an inventory of items found in Farnese's apartment. "Here—his personal effects included a key to a safety deposit box at Banco di Venezia. The box was opened as part of the investigation, but..." She frowned, squinting at the document. "The inventory lists only 'personal papers of no investigative value.'"

Julian's brow furrowed. "Convenient assessment."

"Too convenient." Sofia tapped the page thoughtfully. "If Farnese had evidence about Operation Laguna, that's exactly where he would have kept it."

"The bank still exists," Julian commented. "Though it's been acquired twice since then. Now part of UniCredit."

Sofia felt a familiar tingle at the base of her skull.

"We need to find out if those safety deposit boxes were transferred during the acquisitions," she said. "If Farnese's box still exists somewhere in their system..."

"It's been thirty years," Julian cautioned, though his eyes held the same spark of possibility. "Even if the box survived the mergers, access would require authentication. Next of kin, legal authorization—something we don't have."

“Interpol has investigative prudence, doesn’t it?”

"We'd need Natasha for that," Julian admitted, his voice defeated. "Only she has the authority to issue the access warrant we'd need."

Sofia stared at the scattered papers before her, weighing options that all seemed equally unpalatable.

"I don't trust her," she said finally.

"I know." Julian reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of touching hers. "But we need Interpol's official weight behind this. A thirty-year-old safety deposit box connected to a potential murder? The bank won't open it for two rogue investigators with a theory."

Sofia drew a deep breath. "Fine," she conceded, her voice tight. "Make the call."

Julian nodded and pulled out his phone, stepping away from the table. Sofia watched his back as he spoke, seeing the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand gestured in short, clipped movements. The conversation was brief. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something Sofia couldn't quite read.

"She's two blocks away," he said, as he slid the phone back into his pocket. "At the Café Florian."

Sofia frowned. "Did she track us here?"

Julian shrugged, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of resignation and wariness. "Maybe. Or maybe she's just good at anticipating moves. Either way, she wants us to join her."

Sofia carefully restacked the police report, securing it once more before tucking it into her satchel. "I don't like coincidences," she grumbled.

"Neither do I," Julian agreed, leaving euros on the table for their nearly-full coffees. "But right now, we need her more than we need answers about her methods."

They walked side by side along the narrow fondamenta that bordered the canal. The water reflected the city's lights in shimmering pathways, while gondolas glided past. Sofia couldn't shake the sensation of being watched—not just by Natasha's efficient network, but by Venice itself.

"Keep the report close," Julian said as they navigated around tourists photographing the Rialto Bridge in the distance. "And remember—Natasha doesn't need to know everything we've learned from Blackwood."

Sofia nodded, feeling the weight of the satchel against her hip. "Just enough to secure access to that safety deposit box."

They rounded the corner into Piazza San Marco, where the café's lights spilled golden rectangles across the street. Even at this hour, orchestras played at the outdoor seating areas, their music mingling with conversations in a dozen languages. And there, at a corner table perfectly positioned to observe both the piazza and its adjoining streets, sat Natasha.

Sofia felt Julian tense beside her as they approached. Natasha's watched their movement across the piazza with the air of a predator assessing threats.

"Punctual as always, Julian," Natasha observed, not rising as they reached her table. Her gaze shifted to Sofia, lingering on the satchel. "I see you've been busy, Costa."

"We've made progress," Julian replied before Sofia could speak, sliding into the chair opposite Natasha. "Potentially significant progress."

Sofia remained standing a moment longer, scanning the surrounding tables. Three men in business attire sat within earshot—too attentive to their surroundings, too alert for casual tourists. Interpol backup. Natasha never operated without contingencies.

"Your team is conspicuous," Sofia said as she took her seat, placing her satchel deliberately between her feet.

A ghost of a smile touched Natasha's lips. "Only to those trained to look." She signaled to a waiter, who appeared with preternatural speed. "Grappa for the table. Your best."

When the waiter departed, Natasha leaned toward them. "I've spent the day with our banker friend, Zanetti. He's been surprisingly cooperative once I explained the stakes."

"And what did he share?" Julian asked.

"Confirmation that certain financial irregularities continue to this day." Natasha's voice lowered. "Transfers through shell companies, offshore accounts linked to Venetian noble families, unusual shipping manifests for cargo that officially doesn't exist."

Sofia studied Natasha's face, searching for deception in the reflexes most people couldn't control. "Operation Laguna never ended," she stated flatly.

"It evolved," Natasha corrected. "Adapted to a post–Cold War landscape. The noble families maintained their networks, but the clientele changed." She accepted the grappa from the returning waiter, taking a sip. "What have you found?"

Julian looked at Sofia, a question in his eyes. She gave an almost indiscernible nod.

"The police report on Roberto Farnese's death in 1995," Julian said. "The complete version, not the sanitized official record."

Something flashed in Natasha's eyes—surprise, or perhaps recognition. It vanished so quickly Sofia might have imagined it.

"Where?" Natasha demanded.

"A secure source," Sofia replied carefully. "Someone Bellanti trusted."

"This source is still alive, then?" Natasha's tone was biting. "Unlike Professor Bellanti?"

"For now," Sofia acknowledged. "The report confirms Farnese's death wasn't suicide. He was murdered to cover up what he'd discovered about Operation Laguna's transformation." Sofia kept her eyes fixed on Natasha, watching for reactions. "And before he died, he placed something in a safety deposit box at Banco di Venezia."

Natasha's finger traced the rim of her grappa glass thoughtfully. "And you believe this 'something' is still there? After all these years?"

"Banks don't dispose of unclaimed safety deposit contents," Julian interjected. "Especially Italian banks, where bureaucracy preserves what practicality might discard."

"We need access to that box," Sofia added. "Whatever Farnese hid there got him killed—and likely Bellanti, too, once he discovered the connection."

Music swelled around them, a Vivaldi piece whose bright notes contrasted the gravity of their conversation. Natasha's expression remained unreadable as she considered their request, her gaze occasionally flicking to Sofia's satchel.

"You understand what you're asking," she said finally. "An official Interpol warrant to access a three-decade-old safety deposit box based on a police report that officially doesn't exist."

"The evidence is solid," Julian pressed. "The timeline aligns perfectly with Operation Laguna's official termination. Farnese discovered something about its continuation, documented it, and was killed before he could expose it."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "Show me the report."

Sofia shook her head, her hand not moving toward her satchel. "The warrant first."

A tense silence descended over their table, broken only by the distant notes of the orchestra.

"Still the same Sofia," she observed, her voice like ice. "Always assuming the worst intentions."

"Experience is an effective teacher," Sofia replied evenly.

Julian cleared his throat. "Perhaps a compromise. Sofia can share the relevant sections of the report—enough to justify the warrant without compromising our source."

Natasha considered this, then gave a curt nod. Sofia reached into her satchel, removing only the specific pages detailing the safety deposit box and the evidence of homicide rather than suicide. She placed them on the table, keeping her hand firmly on the edge of the papers.

Natasha looked through the documents, her expression giving nothing away. When she finished, she sat back, signaling to one of her nearby agents.

"I'll arrange the warrant," she said, her tone businesslike. "We'll access the box tomorrow morning when the bank opens." She fixed Sofia with a penetrating stare. "But I want the complete report, Costa. No more selective disclosure."

"When we've secured the contents of the safety deposit box," Sofia countered. "Not before. And it has to be tonight. Not tomorrow. Lives are already in danger. It can’t wait.”

“You’re pushing it,” Natasha snapped.

Sofia realized perhaps she was. She also realized she wasn’t about to back down. She shrugged. “Tonight.”

"If it's that urgent, I need the complete report now." Natasha's voice cut through the noise of the café. "Not bits of it. Everything."

A waiter approaching with fresh glasses hesitated, sensing the atmosphere, then quietly retreated.

Sofia's fingers remained splayed protectively over the partial documents. "We do this together, or not at all. The complete report stays with me until we've secured the box."

Julian shifted in his seat, positioning himself between the two women. "The bank's night manager can authorize emergency access with sufficient law enforcement presence," he said, his voice calm. "I've worked with UniCredit before. There's precedent."

Natasha's cold gaze never left Sofia's face. "You realize what you're asking? Mobilizing a team at this hour, securing judicial authorization..." She trailed off, studying Sofia . "What aren't you telling me, Costa?"

"That whoever killed Bellanti is still active in Venice," Sofia replied, meeting Natasha's stare evenly. "That they've already tried to kill Gabriella Ricci. That every hour we delay puts more lives at risk."

"Including yours?" Natasha asked, something unidentifiable playing across her features.

"I'm not the priority."

Natasha's mouth curved into a smile. "You never were good at self-preservation." The agent she’d signaled approached, bending to receive whispered instructions before departing with rapid strides across the piazza.

"You have one hour," Natasha said, rising from her chair. "My team will secure the bank and necessary authorizations. We meet at the UniCredit branch near the Rialto at eleven."

Relief and concern mingled in Sofia's chest as she gathered the documents, returning them to her satchel. "We'll be there."

As Natasha walked away through the crowded piazza, Julian leaned closer to Sofia. "You still don't trust her," he said, not a question.

"Do you?"

Julian's eyes followed Natasha's retreating form. "I trust her ambition. She wants this case solved, wants the promotion that comes with it." He turned back to Sofia, his features troubled. “Just… don’t fight a battle you can’t win.”

“In war… you don’t always have a choice,” Sofia protested. “It takes two sides.”
She pushed to her feet, moving towards the exit. The safety deposit box would have to hold answers.

Otherwise, she feared more lives were in deep trouble.

Chapter 14

The old man stood in the bathhouse, filled with rage. His withered body shook beneath the thin white robe, not from weakness but from something deeper. Steam billowed around him, transforming the marble chamber.

His assistant—a middle-aged man with downcast eyes—poured water over heated stones, releasing another cloud of vapor into the saturated air. The ritual had been performed exactly as it had been for decades: the same herbs infused in the water, the same prayers spoken, the same methodical cleansing of body and spirit.

But today, something was different.

The door swung open. Through the swirling mist, five men entered in unison, their dark suits incongruous against the bathhouse's pale marble. Each wore an identical white carnival mask—the traditional volto that had concealed Venetian identities for centuries. They moved with coordination, spreading to form a semicircle around the old man.

The assistant's hands froze mid-task, water dripping from the ladle he held. His eyes darted to his master, asking for instruction, but the old man remained motionless, his face betraying nothing as he regarded the intruders.

"Signore," the assistant whispered, moving closer to the old man's side. "We should leave."

The old man ignored him, his rheumy eyes fixed on the masked figures before him. Decades of discipline held his body still despite the anger that made his pulse visible at his temple.

The central figure stepped forward, his mask gleaming wetly in the steam.

"The woman," he said simply, his voice carrying the refined accent of aristocracy. "She escaped.” There was fear in his voice.

The old man said nothing. His silence filled the chamber more completely than any answer could have.

The assistant moved carefully, placing himself between his master and the masked men. He draped a dry robe over the old man's shoulders, his movements revealing decades of performing the same task.

"My master is completing his purification," the assistant said, his voice steady despite the stress visible in his shoulders. "Perhaps you gentlemen could return another time."

Still, the old man remained silent, only his eyes alive in his emotionless face.

He finally spoke. “Decades I have worked…” He raised a hand in a sweeping motion, displaying the ring perched on his middle finger.

The ring caught the light—a lion’s head in the center. Its gold surface seemed to absorb rather than reflect the bathhouse's glow, as if it contained darkness rather than metal.

"Decades," he repeated, his voice stronger now, resonating against the marble walls. "Building networks. Cultivating loyalty. Ensuring Venice's true power remained in the proper hands." He lowered his arm slowly, the effort visible. "And you cannot handle one woman?"

The masked men shuffled uncomfortably, the leader's shoulders stiffening beneath his tailored suit.

"She is... resourceful," the leader replied cautiously. "And not operating alone."

"Excuses." The old man spat the word like venom. "Your father would have completed this task without a second thought. Without failure."

The masked leader tilted his head, the only indication that the barb had found its mark. "We've identified Ricci’s associates. They’re Interpol agents. We know their names.”

"And yet they still breathe." The old man turned away, motioning for his assistant to continue the ritual cleansing. Water cascaded over heated stones, releasing another cloud of fragrant steam. "Your bloodline weakens with each generation, Count. Your grandfather understood what was required to protect our interests. Your father learned, eventually. But you..." He shook his head, disappointment in every line of his face.

The assistant's hands moved easily, preparing oils for the next stage of the ritual. His eyes, however, never left the masked intruders, his body positioned to shield his master if necessary.

"The safety deposit box," the masked leader said suddenly. "They've obtained authorization to access it."

The old man's hand froze in mid-gesture. For the first time, something flickered across his features—not fear but cold calculation.

"Impossible," he argued. "Those records were purged decades ago."

"Nevertheless, they've secured an emergency warrant. They meet at the bank within the hour."

Steam swirled between them, momentarily obscuring the old man's expression. When it cleared, his face had hardened into stone.

"Then you know what must be done." He turned his back on the masked men, a dismissal as final as a death sentence. "Ensure nothing survives. Not the documents. Not the witnesses."

The leader bowed, a sign of acquiescence that carried generations of ingrained deference. "And the Interpol agents?"

The old man sank deeper into the steam, his voice emerging disembodied from the swirling mist. "Foreigners disappear in Venice all the time, Count. Our canals have always been hungry."

The masked men withdrew together, moving like shadows through the billowing steam. Only when the heavy door closed behind them did the assistant speak, his voice reedy.

"Master, perhaps it would be prudent to leave Venice," the assistant spoke above the hiss of steam. "Until this matter is resolved."

The old man's laugh was dry as parchment. "Leave? This city has been our domain since before the Crusades. I will not flee like some common criminal." He extended his hand, examining the lion signet ring that had passed through his bloodline. "Prepare my evening clothes. And inform the others—the full Council must convene tonight."

"Sir, the Council hasn't met in full session since—"

"Since Roberto Farnese threatened to expose us," the old man finished, his voice indignant. "History repeats itself, Vittorio. But this time, we will ensure a different ending."

As his assistant hurried to obey, the old man closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the purifying steam. Venice had protected its secrets for a millennium. It would do so again.

Chapter 15

The UniCredit bank near the Rialto was a modern financial institution housed in a fifteenth-century palazzo. Columns supported a high ceiling where frescoes of maritime commerce watched over Venetian wealth. Sofia noted the security cameras cleverly integrated into the moldings, the reinforced glass barriers separating tellers from customers, the silent alarm buttons positioned at regular intervals.

Old and new. Tradition and technology. Venice in microcosm.

Julian stood beside her, alert despite his casual stance. "Natasha's team is in position," he said, indicating with a half nod the plainclothes agents stationed at strategic points throughout the bank's lobby.

Sofia checked her watch—10:57. "Three minutes ahead of schedule. Efficient."

"Always has been," Julian acknowledged, his eyes constantly searching their surroundings. "It's what makes her effective. And dangerous."

The night manager approached—a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and the perpetually harried expression of someone called away from dinner to handle an unanticipated crisis. Natasha walked beside him, her dark suit and severe hairstyle making her look like she belonged among the bank's sleek modern fixtures rather than its Renaissance architecture.

"The authorization has been processed," Natasha announced without preamble. "Signor Bianchi has graciously agreed to escort us to the vault personally."

The manager nodded stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation. "This is highly irregular," he said, his English correct but heavily accented. "Safety deposit boxes are typically accessed during business hours, with proper documentation and appointment."

"Your cooperation is appreciated," Julian replied with a wink. "We understand the inconvenience."

The manager paused, clearly finding Julian off-putting. But Bianchi gathered himself and led them through a door marked "Private Banking," down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men.

"The original Banco di Venezia vault was preserved during both mergers," Bianchi explained as they descended a sweeping staircase. "UniCredit maintained it for our most established clients. The older safety deposit boxes remain exactly as they were."

"Including those unclaimed for decades?" Sofia asked, observing how their footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

Bianchi's shoulders straightened. "Italian banking law requires us to maintain unclaimed assets indefinitely. Particularly those of... significance."

"And Farnese's box qualifies as significant?" Julian pressed.

The manager didn't answer right away. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, they faced an imposing steel door that seemed jarringly modern against the stonework surrounding it. Bianchi placed his palm against a biometric scanner, then entered a code on a digital keypad.

"The Farnese family has maintained accounts with us since the sixteenth century," he said as the vault door opened with a hiss. "Their banking relationship predates the Republic's fall."

The vault beyond housed row upon row of modern steel safety deposit boxes, their surfaces gleaming under recessed lighting.

"Box 1127," Natasha instructed, consulting the warrant displayed on her phone. "Registered to Roberto Farnese, accessed last on April 17, 1995."

Three days before his death, Sofia realized, exchanging a glance with Julian.

Bianchi led them to a section of older boxes near the back of the vault. These were larger than modern ones, their brass number plates tarnished with age. He located 1127 and waited.

"The judicial order authorizes only the removal of documents related to Operation Laguna," he reminded them, his professional demeanor reasserting itself. "Any other contents must remain sealed."

"Understood," Natasha replied coolly.

The manager produced a key from a secure cabinet, then gestured for Natasha to insert the master key provided by the judicial authority. The dual-key system required both to turn simultaneously—a relic of older security protocols that now seemed outdated in the age of digital encryption.

The lock clicked open. Bianchi stepped back, allowing Natasha to withdraw the metal container inside. She placed it on a nearby examination table, its surface visible by directed lighting.

Sofia moved closer, hyperaware of Natasha's position beside her. The metal box—approximately the size of a thick manuscript—sat between them like a time capsule from a dangerous past. Whatever it contained had cost Roberto Farnese his life, and likely Marco Bellanti's as well. The truth of Operation Laguna had remained sealed for nearly three decades, waiting patiently beneath the waters of the Venetian lagoon.

"Would you like me to leave while you examine the contents?" Bianchi asked, his professional courtesy barely masking his curiosity.

"That won't be necessary," Natasha replied without looking up. "But perhaps some privacy?"

The manager nodded and retreated to the vault's entrance, positioning himself just far enough away to provide the illusion of privacy while maintaining his supervisory role.

Natasha removed latex gloves from her jacket pocket, offering pairs to Sofia and Julian. "We maintain chain of custody," she said, her voice authoritative. "Everything documented."

Sofia agreed, pulling on the gloves. Julian did the same, his eyes never leaving the metal container.

"Together?" Natasha suggested, her hand hovering over the lid.

Sofia met her gaze, searching for any sign of duplicity. Finding none she could identify, she nodded once.

Natasha lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in a bed of velvet, lay a slim leather portfolio bound with a fraying silk cord. Beside it sat a small audio cassette in a plastic case, its label yellowed with age but still legible: "Insurance - R.F. - April 15, 1995."

"Documentation and audio evidence," Julian commented, leaning closer to examine the items without touching them. "Farnese wasn't taking chances."

Sofia carefully lifted the portfolio, untying the silk cord with gloved fingers. Inside, she found organized documents: shipping manifests, financial ledgers, photographs, and what appeared to be intercepted communications. All were secured with paper clips that had left rust marks over the decades.

"He was building a case," Sofia said, leafing through the papers. "Documenting the continuation of Operation Laguna beyond its official termination."

Natasha pulled a document from the middle of the stack—a manifest listing cargo transferred from a Soviet vessel to an Italian one in international waters. "The date," she said, tapping the paper with a gloved finger. "Six months after Operation Laguna supposedly ended."

Julian focused on a series of photographs showing men in expensive suits meeting on what appeared to be a private yacht. "Recognition software could identify these individuals," he suggested. "Compare them against known Venetian families."

Sofia turned to the final page in the portfolio and felt her breath catch. "Look at this," she said, holding a handwritten letter. The elegant script flowed across expensive stationery bearing a familiar crest—a lion's head, identical to the one she'd seen on the dagger in Bellanti's chest and the ring worn by his attacker.

"Il Leone Nascosto," she murmured. "The Hidden Lion."

The letter was brief, written in a cipher that used both numerical sequences and symbolic substitutions. Sofia couldn't decipher it in the moment, but the signature at the bottom made her heart beat faster—the ink stamp of the lion's head, pressed into crimson wax.

"There's more," Julian said, reaching deeper into the safety deposit box.

At the very bottom lay a separate manila folder, unmarked except for a single word handwritten across its tab: "Leon."

Sofia withdrew it carefully, the aged paper cool beneath her gloved fingertips. As she opened it on the examination table, black-and-white photographs spilled out alongside newspaper clippings.

"The Assassin," Julian translated, noting the Latin inscription scrawled on the inside cover.

The photographs were surveillance shots, grainy and taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. Despite their poor quality, they revealed a striking man—elegant in bearing, with eyes that somehow commanded attention even in the blurred images. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, dressed impeccably in tailored suits as he moved through various European cities.

"This face," Sofia murmured, recognition dawning as she compared two particular newspaper clippings. "These are the other deaths Bellanti was investigating."

The articles detailed the diplomat's drowning and the journalist's car accident—both now displayed alongside photos of the same handsome man. The man’s photos were more modern, perhaps 1990s. But they were pasted on the articles of the murders over decades before.

"He doesn't know he's being photographed," Natasha observed, drawing closer. "These are true surveillance shots."

Sofia turned to the last photograph, slightly larger than the others. It showed the same elegant man shaking hands with an elderly gentleman—someone in his eighties at least, with the air of nobility. Both wore identical rings on their right hands.

A hasty caption had been scrawled beneath the image in blue ink: "Leon and the original Leon. Father and son."

"A family business," Julian said softly. "Assassination passed down through generations."

Sofia stared at the image, pieces falling into place with terrible clarity. "Not just random killers for hire," she said, her voice tight. "The enforcement arm of the Hidden Lion. When someone threatened to expose Operation Laguna..."

"They dispatched Leon," Natasha finished, scowling. "And now his successor is after anyone connected to Bellanti's research."

Sofia flipped through the remaining photographs, studying the face of the man who had likely killed both the diplomat and the journalist. If this pattern held true...

"The current Leon would be younger," she mused, setting the photos side by side. "Probably in his thirties or forties now, assuming the tradition continued."

"We need to run facial recognition on these right away," Natasha decided, reaching for her phone. "Cross-reference against Venetian nobility, focusing on families connected to the Hidden Lion consortium."

As Natasha stepped away to make the call, Sofia noticed the bank manager frowning at his phone.

“What is it?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to reply but then held up a finger.

The bank manager's phone vibrated again, its screen shining on his concerned face. He answered with a clipped "Pronto," his self-assurance slipping as he listened to whoever was on the other end. Sofia watched as the color drained from his face.

"Cosa? Ripeti—" The manager's voice cut off as he pressed the phone closer to his ear, strain evident in his furrowed brow. "Hello? Antonio?"

The line had gone dead. Bianchi pulled the phone from his ear, staring at it with growing alarm. He immediately dialed back, the sound of unanswered rings loud in the vault's hushed atmosphere.

"Something's wrong," Sofia said to Julian, her hand instinctively moving toward where her weapon would be if she were still with Interpol.

The manager shoved his phone into his pocket, his earlier bureaucratic formalities replaced by genuine fear. "We need to leave. At once." He moved toward the vault entrance with surprising speed for a man his age.

"What's happening?" Natasha demanded, intercepting him.

"Security breach upstairs," he replied, his accent thickening with stress. "My colleague started to explain, then—nothing." He gestured frantically toward the vault door. "Please, we must go."

A metallic grinding sound reverberated through the vault—the security system engaging.

"They're locking us in," Julian said, moving swiftly to gather the evidence they'd discovered.

Sofia's mind raced through possibilities, each more alarming than the last. "The documents," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "Everything back in the box."

As Julian and Natasha hurriedly returned the items to the safety deposit box, Sofia approached the bank manager, who was frantically entering codes into the vault's interior control panel.

"Emergency override?" she asked.

He shook his head, panic evident in his jerky movements. "Not responding. Someone has initiated lockdown protocol from the main security office."

"Your colleagues?" Natasha asked, joining them.

"Impossible," the manager insisted. "Only three people have that authority, and I'm one of them."

A new sound penetrated the vault—distant but unmistakable. Gunshots, followed by breaking glass, from somewhere above them.

"They found us," Sofia said, meeting Julian's eyes across the vault. "The Hidden Lion."

Natasha pulled her service weapon from its concealed holster. "My team is upstairs," she said, her voice urgent. "We need to establish contact."

The bank manager had gone pale, his fingers frozen over the keypad. "The vault... it's designed to seal completely during security breaches. Air circulation continues, but all communication is blocked to prevent hostage negotiations from inside."

"How long until normal business hours when someone would open it?" Julian asked. "We need to—"

The vault door began its automated closure sequence—steel mechanisms sliding into place. The gap narrowed with each passing second.

"Eight hours minimum," the manager whispered, staring at the shrinking exit.

Sofia made an instant calculation. "Julian—now!"

Without hesitation, she lunged toward the gap. Julian was right behind her, understanding her intention without words. More gunshots echoed from above.

"Costa, wait!" Natasha shouted, moving toward them. "We need to secure the evidence!"

Sofia ignored her, diving through the space. The steel edge grazed her jacket as she rolled into the corridor beyond. Julian squeezed through next, the door catching his sleeve before he yanked it free.

"What are you doing?" Natasha's voice was shrill with anger as she rushed toward the nearly-closed vault door. "The documents—"

"They're safer with you!" Sofia called back as the gap became mere inches. "Keep them secure until we return!"

The last thing Sofia saw before the vault sealed completely was Natasha's face—a mixture of fury and confusion. Then the heavy door closed with finality, locking Natasha and the manager inside with the evidence that had cost multiple lives.

"They'll be safe in there," Julian said, his breathing labored from the narrow escape. "Safer than we are out here."

Sofia nodded, moving toward the staircase. "Natasha's team might still be alive upstairs. We need to—"

A deafening explosion rocked the building, sending dust and bits of plaster raining down from the ceiling. The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized.

"Or not," Julian muttered grimly.

Sofia pressed her back against the wall, listening intently. Footsteps above—multiple sets, moving fast. Male voices calling to each other in Italian, using terminology that confirmed her suspicions: professional operators, likely former military or police.

"They're clearing the building," she whispered to Julian. "Room by room, floor by floor."

"Looking for us," he agreed, his voice equally low. "Or rather, looking for what Farnese hid."

Sofia glanced around the corridor, identifying potential routes. Then, the lights wavered again.

She tensed.

Another second, and the lights went out completely, plunging them into complete darkness.

Chapter 16

Julian didn’t like this.

He didn’t like it at all.

Darkness enveloped them like water. Julian instinctively reached for Sofia, his fingers finding her wrist despite the pitch blackness.

His mind cranked instantly into a familiar operational mode—a state he'd perfected during night raids in his experimental paramilitary days at Interpol. Time slowed as his other senses heightened, compensating for the loss of sight. The stone floor beneath his feet, the waft of air from ventilation shafts, the distant footfalls of their enemy.

"Three meters to your right," he whispered, his lips nearly touching Sofia's ear. "Doorway. Maintenance corridor. Move."

She didn't question him. Her wrist rotated in his grip until their hands clasped, her fingers intertwining with his—a movement that felt natural despite the circumstances.

The footsteps above grew more coordinated—not the chaotic movement of panicked searchers but the methodical sweep of trained operatives. Julian recognized the pattern. Grid search, two-man teams, overlapping fields of fire.

His fingers found the doorframe, then the handle. Locked. A quick assessment of the mechanism by touch confirmed it was a simple interior lock, not the high-security systems protecting the main vault. Julian reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of picks he wasn't supposed to have.

"Cover," he breathed, pressing the tools into Sofia's palm while shrugging off his corduroy jacket.

He felt rather than saw her turn away from the door, becoming a barrier between him and the corridor they'd left. Julian draped his jacket over the lock, muffling any sounds as his fingers worked nimbly. Thirty seconds of careful manipulation rewarded him with a satisfying click.

"Clear," he whispered, reclaiming his jacket and the tools.

They slipped through, closing the door behind them. The new passageway was tighter, the air stale and thick with damp. Julian oriented himself by running his palm along the wall—rough stone now, not the polished marble of the main corridors. A maintenance tunnel, likely predating the modern bank by centuries.

"Can you see anything?" Sofia asked.

"No. But I can feel the air current. Slight draft from the left. Means there's an exit somewhere that way."

They moved cautiously, Julian leading. His boots crossed the uneven floor with certainty that came from years of night operations. A memory surfaced—Bosnia, seven years ago, navigating a pitch-black warehouse with an informant who'd broken down completely, becoming dead weight Julian had to half-carry to extraction. Compared to that, Sofia was a dream partner—her movements controlled, her breathing calm despite their predicament.

Sofia Costa was what his father might’ve called something… quite something. Most of his father’s adages and advice were discarded and went the way of trash in the Venetian canals… but credit where credit was due. Julian’s old man knew how to spot a high-quality woman.

And Sofia Costa was in a league of her own. He wasn’t quite sure why she fascinated him so much.

Perhaps it was because of how she held herself—that quiet intensity, the way her mind never stopped working even in moments of crisis. In his years with special operations, Julian had met dozens of capable agents, but Sofia possessed something rarer—a kind of focused grace under pressure that made her seem almost superhuman.

She never quit. That, he decided, was what he respected most. She simply never quit.

The tunnel curved, then branched. Julian paused, listening. Water dripped somewhere ahead. Beneath that came the gentle lap of canal water.

"Service entrance," he confirmed. "These old buildings always have water-level access for deliveries."

They moved faster now, Julian's confidence growing as the sound of water verified his mental map. The bank, like most ancient Venetian structures, must have a door opening directly onto a small canal—the original method for transferring valuables before armored cars existed.

A faraway voice froze them both. Orders barked in Italian, ringing through stone passages. Then came the distinctive sound Julian dreaded—the mechanical whir of night vision goggles being activated.

"They're equipped," he whispered, pulling Sofia into an alcove as a green glow appeared at the far end of the tunnel. "NVGs."

Sofia's breath was warm against his neck as she pressed closer, making herself smaller in the recess. "How many?"

"Two, maybe three. Approaching systematically." Julian cycled through options, discarding each as quickly as it formed. They were outmatched technologically, outgunned certainly, and unfamiliar with the territory. The rational outcome was grim.

But Julian Varga had never been entirely rational when it came to protecting people he cared about.

"I need your phone," he said suddenly.

"What for?"

"Distraction." He felt her press the device into his palm. Julian navigated by touch, finding the flashlight function, then the timer. "When I say now, run for the water access. Don't stop, don't look back. Just move."

"Julian—"

"I'll be right behind you." He squeezed her hand once. "Promise."

The green glow grew stronger, showing small patches of wall as the men swept their enhanced vision back and forth..

"Trust me," Julian urged, feeling her tense beside him.

He set the specialized app’s timer for fifteen seconds, then hurled the phone as far as he could back the way they'd come. It clattered against stone, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space. The green glow moved toward the noise.

"Now!" Julian hissed, pushing Sofia toward the water access.

They ran, Julian's hand guiding Sofia through the darkness, his orientation of their surroundings growing clearer with each step. Behind them came shouts, then the beam of a tactical flashlight cutting through the darkness. The phone's timer would be counting down—three, two, one.

The flashlight function activated, creating a sudden burst of white light that would temporarily blind anyone using night vision. Cursing and confusion erupted behind them.

Julian felt rather than saw the end of the tunnel approaching—a change in air pressure, the sound of water growing louder.

A bullet struck the doorframe inches from Julian's head, sending chips flying. He shoved Sofia forward. The green glow of night vision approached rapidly from the tunnel.

Julian's hand found a loose stone in the wall. He gauged the distance, timing the attacker's approach by the bobbing of the green light. When the figure emerged—masked, armed, night vision equipment making him look inhuman—Julian struck.

The stone connected with the goggles, shattering one eyepiece. The man screamed, tearing at the suddenly blinding equipment. Julian didn't wait to see more. He turned and dived into the canal, the cold water closing over his head.

The darkness underwater was different—alive with phosphorescence and the reflected glow of distant lights on the surface. Julian kicked powerfully toward where Sofia's pale form swam through the water ahead of him. Behind, muffled by water, came the sound of more shots—wild, panicked firing into the canal.

They surfaced beneath a small bridge, gasping for air. Sofia's eyes found his, wide and questioning.

"Are you hit?" she whispered.

Julian did a quick mental inventory. Nothing felt wrong beyond the expected—cold, wet, adrenaline making his pulse thunder in his ears.

"Clean," he confirmed. "You?"

She nodded, dark hair plastered to her face. "Bellanti was right," she said, her voice quiet. "They really will kill to keep these secrets."

Julian looked toward the canal banks, identifying three potential escape routes. "Talk later," he replied, moving toward the most promising path. "Those weren't ordinary security guards. Whoever the Hidden Lion is, they've got serious resources."

Sofia followed, her movements in the water as effective as they had been on land. "They're still inside," she said. "Natasha and the manager—"

"Safe for now," Julian assured her, though he shared her concern. "That vault is designed to withstand explosives. More importantly, it's designed to protect what's inside." He paused at the edge of an embankment. "Which is exactly why they wanted us. The evidence doesn't leave that vault without authorization."

Sofia's eyes widened with understanding as Julian helped pull her from the water. "They need us," she said. "To force Natasha to open it."

"They need someone," Julian corrected grimly, scanning the deserted calle ahead. "Doesn't have to be us specifically. Any leverage will do."

The implication hung between them as they melted into the alleyways of sleeping Venice, water streaming from their clothes and pooling at their feet.

The church of San Giacomo di Rialto offered temporary sanctuary, its portico providing cover as Julian and Sofia shed excess water from their clothes. Julian's mind worked quickly, processing their options with the dispassionate clarity that had made him valuable to Interpol's most sensitive operations. His soaked corduroy jacket hung heavily on his frame, but the chill hardly registered as he studied the sliver of the bank visible across the small campo. Armed men moved around the building's perimeter, their communications equipment glinting occasionally in the moonlight.

Backup would be en route. Fifteen, twenty minutes? It would take time. Locals would take longer.

Did Natasha have that much time?

"Eight operatives minimum," he stated, noting their positioning. "Two at each major entrance, probable communication with an internal team."

Sofia wrung water from her hair. "We should contact local police."

Julian shook his head. "Too risky. We don't know who's compromised. These aren't common criminals. They cleared Natasha's team without triggering alarms. That suggests inside knowledge, possibly police or security service training."

Moonlight spilled across the campo, lighting the bank's exterior. The building stood as it had for centuries. Somewhere inside, Natasha and the bank manager remained sealed in the vault with evidence that people were willing to kill for.

"We can't leave them," Julian said. "Not just Natasha—the evidence. If these people get what they want, more people die. Bellanti, Farnese... they all died trying to expose this."

Sofia studied his face, weighing possibilities. "We're outnumbered, outgunned, and operating on their territory."

"All true." Julian's lips quirked into the half smile that had unnerved opponents across countless operations. "But they expect us to run, not return."

"You have a plan."

It wasn't a question, but Julian answered anyway. "Service entrance, northeast corner. Likely minimal coverage since they're focusing resources on obvious escape routes." He glanced at their sodden clothes. "We'll need to force close-quarters engagement. Their weapons become liabilities at arm's length."

Sofia nodded understanding. Her eyes held something Julian hadn't seen often—complete trust, no reservation. The responsibility of that trust settled on him with familiar weight.

"I'll go first," he said. "When it starts, stay behind me, look for an opening to the vault level."

They moved silently through the city's passages to circle back toward the bank. Julian navigated with the confidence of someone who had memorized urban layouts across four continents, identifying the optimal approach that balanced concealment with speed.

The service entrance was as he'd predicted—a small doorway recessed into an alcove, designed for deliveries rather than customers. A single guard stood watch, his attention focused outward toward the canal rather than the approaching threat from the shadows.

Julian touched Sofia's arm, indicating she should wait. Then he simply stepped forward, hands visible, posture relaxed.

"Scusi," he called, his Italian nowhere near as good as Sofia’s. "Mi sono perso."

The guard turned, weapon raising automatically at this new presence. The momentary confusion—a lost tourist rather than a fleeing suspect—created the split-second advantage Julian needed.

Three rapid strides closed the distance. The guard's reflexes were good—his finger tightening on the trigger—but Julian was already inside his effective firing arc. His left hand diverted the weapon while his right delivered a powerful strike to the throat, collapsing the windpipe without a sound. The guard dropped to his knees, then slumped unconscious against the wall.

Julian caught the weapon before it clattered to the ground. He checked the magazine—full, with one in the chamber—before signaling Sofia forward.

"Fifteen seconds for ingress," he whispered, moving through the doorway.

They entered a service corridor lit only by emergency lighting. Julian led, weapon held low but ready, his footsteps quiet despite the absurd squelching of his water-logged boots.

The corridor opened into a storage area filled with office supplies and cleaning equipment. Through a partially open door beyond, Julian glimpsed the bank's main hall.

Now, that majestic hall had become an improvised command center. Three men stood near the central island of teller stations, heads bent over what appeared to be building schematics. The marble-floored space with its soaring ceilings offered little cover, but Julian noticed the massive columns supporting the decorative arches above—potential assets in what would come next.

He turned to Sofia, speaking in a whisper. "Three targets. I'll engage. When they're distracted, find the stairs back to the vault level."

Sofia nodded once, eyes already mapping her route.

Julian assessed each opponent—their positions, their weapons. Then he paused. Two of the Interpol agents were lying on the ground—dead or unconscious. Hard to tell.

They weren’t moving.

But if they were still breathing, a firefight would risk them.

Shit. He couldn’t risk bullets. He judged the situation, and then acted. Sometimes, blunt action was all that was required.

He walked into the open, discarding the weapon he'd taken from the guard. Its clatter against the floor drew their attention.

"Gentlemen," he said pleasantly, hands raised in apparent surrender. They’d let him take two steps too many. Now he was between them. They’d risk shooting each other. "Lovely evening for a robbery."

Their response was instant—weapons swinging toward him. Julian was already moving, closing the distance that transformed their firearms from advantages to encumbrances. The first man managed half a trigger pull before Julian's palm drove upward into his elbow, hyperextending the joint with a loud crack.

The screamed obscenity created momentary confusion Julian exploited ruthlessly. He pivoted, using the injured man as a shield while sweeping the legs from the second attacker. Both crashed to the floor, the impact driving breath from lungs in dual gasps.

The third man circled wider, creating distance to be able to use his weapon. Julian anticipated the movement, driving the fallen men before him as he rolled behind the nearest column. Bullets struck the column, sending shards flying.

Julian emerged from the opposite side of the column, snatching a heavy bronze paperweight from a nearby desk. The hefty object flew with unerring accuracy, striking the gunman's wrist. The weapon clattered on the flooras Julian closed the remaining distance.

What followed wasn't elegant. It was brutally efficient. Julian moved with the knowledge of someone who had learned combat not in dojos but in actual conflict. Each strike targeted vulnerability—throat, solar plexus, knee joints—with devastating effect.

When the third man collapsed, Julian turned back to the others. The first attacker remained down, clutching his shattered elbow. The second had regained his feet, reaching for a backup weapon at his ankle. Julian's boot connected with the side of his head before the weapon cleared its holster.

Silence descended on the grand hall, broken only by the labored breathing of injured men and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the building. Julian surveyed the aftermath, checking each opponent to ensure they posed no further threat.

"Sofia?" he called softly, searching the vast space.

She emerged from behind a planter, coming toward him. "The vault level is still accessible. I saw two more guards, but they're focused on the main vault door. We can approach from—"

A flash of movement behind a teller's counter caught Julian's peripheral vision—something too controlled to be an injured opponent recovering. He turned abruptly, pushing Sofia behind him in the same motion.

Across the hall stood a figure unlike the others. Where the guards had worn tactical gear and balaclavas, this man wore an immaculate suit beneath a tailored overcoat. But it was the mask that froze Julian's blood—a porcelain Venetian lion, its craftsmanship exquisite, its empty eye sockets somehow conveying more menace than any human gaze.

"Leon," Julian breathed.

The masked figure remained unnaturally still, head tilted as if studying an unusual specimen. When he finally moved, it happened with impossible speed—a clear indication of training beyond conventional combat systems. The gun appeared in his hand as if conjured, aimed with preternatural steadiness.

"Sofia, down!" Julian lunged sideways, instinctively knowing that he presented the larger target.

The shot cracked through the cavernous space, its echo rebounding. Julian felt the impact before he heard the sound—a hammer blow to his chest that drove the air from his lungs. The force spun him halfway around, his momentum carrying him against a column.

Warmth spread across his shirt, blooming outward in a rapidly expanding circle of crimson. Julian pressed his palm against the wound, feeling the steady pulse of blood between his fingers. His knees buckled, dropping him to the floor as his free hand reached for the smooth column.

Sofia's scream seemed to come from very far away. Through vision already beginning to tunnel, Julian watched her recover one of the weapons he’d discarded, returning fire that forced the masked assassin to find cover. Despite the pain fogging his thoughts, Julian watched the assassin's movements—the easy grace in each step.

Never in all his field operations had Julian encountered anyone who moved with such lethal accuracy. The realization settled coldly alongside the growing pain in his chest: They weren't dealing with an ordinary killer but something altogether more dangerous.

The last thing Julian saw before consciousness began to slip was Sofia's face, her expression transforming from professional determination to raw fear as she fired again at the retreating masked figure.

Chapter 17

Sofia paced in the hospital room, her own features as pale as Julian’s. Hers from fear. His from blood loss.

Hers from fear of another type of loss. A far more costly one.

She glanced at the monitors on the wall. The beeping was incessant. It gnawed at her.

The sound of Julian's heartbeat—regular, insistent, alive—should have been reassuring. Yet Sofia found herself checking the monitors obsessively, as if her vigilance alone could keep the green line pulsing across the screen.

Dawn filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting Julian's unconscious form in bands of gold and shadow. His face appeared younger in sleep, the habitual alertness erased.

"The bullet missed his heart by two centimeters," the doctor had told her three hours earlier, his English excellent despite his thick accent. "Had it been a direct hit..." He hadn't needed to finish.

Sofia stopped her pacing to study Julian's face. His breathing remained shallow but stable, oxygen flowing through a nasal cannula. Bandages encased his chest beneath the thin hospital gown, clean white against skin still pale from blood loss. The surgery had been successful—the bullet removed, damaged tissue repaired—but Julian remained stubbornly unconscious.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Natasha stood in the doorway, her usual suit replaced by more casual attire, though her severe expression remained unchanged.

"Status?" she asked, approaching Julian's bedside.

"Stable," Sofia replied, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in her voice. "Surgery went well. He's just... not waking up."

Natasha nodded, studying the monitors with the same analytical gaze she applied to evidence. "The vault contents are secure," she said after a moment. "Two agents died protecting it."

"And the manager?"

"Shaken but unharmed." Natasha's eyes never left Julian's face. "The attackers escaped before local police arrived. Our team found three unconscious men in the main hall—Julian's work, I presume?"

Sofia nodded, recalling Julian's easy movements, the controlled violence that had seemed almost natural. Until the man in the porcelain mask had appeared.

"What about Leon?" she asked, the name tasting bitter on her tongue.

Something flickered across Natasha's usually detached features—concern, perhaps. "No trace. The masked shooter vanished before backup arrived." She finally turned to face Sofia directly. "You're certain it was the same figure from the photographs? The Hidden Lion's assassin?"

"The mask was identical to the descriptions in Farnese's notes," Sofia confirmed. "And he moved... differently. Not like an ordinary operative."

"Explain."

Sofia struggled to articulate what she'd witnessed. "It was... mechanical, almost. Perfectly controlled. No wasted movement, no hesitation." She glanced at Julian's still form. "Even Julian couldn't anticipate him, and Julian's the best combatant I've ever worked with."

Natasha's eyebrow arched at this assessment, but she offered no comment. Instead, she consulted her phone briefly, then tucked it away.

"As of this moment, you're being placed under official supervision, Costa," Natasha announced, her voice cool. "The regional director feels your involvement has become... problematic."

Sofia straightened, fatigue instantly burned away by indignation. "What are you talking about?"

"You're sidelined. Effective immediately." Natasha's gaze was implacable. "Two operatives died last night. Julian is critical. The evidence connecting Venetian nobility to decades of criminal activity is explosive. This is no longer an investigation for civilians."

As if summoned by her words, two men appeared in the doorway—broad-shouldered figures in dark suits whose body language screamed "security detail." Their expressionless faces and posture suggested military backgrounds, their eyes constantly looking for threats even in the quiet hospital room.

"These agents will escort you to a secure location," Natasha continued, pointing toward the men. "You'll remain there until we've contained the situation."

"Contained?" Sofia's voice rose dangerously. "Julian is lying here because we're finally close to the truth! Bellanti, Farnese—they all died because of what's in those documents."

"Which is exactly why this operation is now classified at the highest level." Natasha checked her watch dismissively. "The evidence will be handled according to protocol."

"Protocol?" Sofia nearly spat the word. "Like the 'protocol' that buried Farnese's murder for thirty years? That made his death look like suicide?" She stepped closer to Julian's bed, positioning herself protectively. "I found Bellanti. I tracked down his research. I've earned the right to see this through."

"Your feelings are irrelevant," Natasha replied coldly. "Gentlemen, please escort Ms. Costa to the vehicle."

The larger of the two men stepped forward, his hand extending toward Sofia's elbow. "Ma'am, if you'll come with us."

Sofia stared at Natasha, searching for any sign of the colleague she'd once respected. Finding none, she let her shoulders slump in apparent defeat.

"Fine," she muttered, reaching for her jacket draped across a nearby chair. "Let me just..." She fumbled with the garment, letting it drop. "Sorry."

"At least let me say goodbye," she said quietly, moving toward Julian's bedside.

The men exchanged glances, their vigilance momentarily relaxed by her apparent compliance. It was enough.

Sofia moved with explosive speed, feinting left before darting right, using the hospital bed as a barrier.

The nearest agent lunged, but Sofia was already sliding past him, her rain-slicked shoes skidding across the polished hospital floor. She knocked a tray of medical supplies into his path, the clatter loud in the sterile room. The second agent reached for his weapon—a rookie mistake in close quarters.

"Costa!" Natasha's voice cracked like a whip. "Stand down!"

Sofia ignored her, grabbing the agent's wrist and twisting. His balance compromised, he stumbled forward as she pivoted behind him, using his momentum to propel him into his partner. Both men collided with a grunt.

Sofia slipped through the door as the agents regained their footing. The hospital corridor stretched before her—fluorescent lights, bewildered staff, and likely more agents stationed at exits. She sprinted.

The fire stairs provided temporary security. Sofia descended rapidly, thinking through her options. The main entrance would be watched. Service areas, perhaps...

Sofia burst through the fire exit onto the third floor, startling an elderly patient shuffling with his IV pole. The alarm system remained mercifully silent—likely disabled during construction work she'd noticed on the west wing. She moved quickly past service carts and confused staff, recalling the building's layout from her hours spent pacing its corridors.

"Mi scusi," she said, snatching a white lab coat from an unattended chair. She shrugged it on, plucking a random chart from a wall holder as she rounded the corner.

Footsteps thundered down the stairwell behind her—Natasha's agents in pursuit. Sofia ducked into the radiology department, head down, clipboard raised as if consulting important findings. A technician looked up questioningly, but Sofia's confident stride and professional attitude waved away suspicion.

Through the department's rear doors lay another corridor, then the laundry chutes she'd noticed earlier while exploring during Julian's surgery. Sofia glanced over her shoulder—clear for now—then pried open the metal door. The chute yawned before her, dark and cramped, descending into the hospital's basement.

No time to hesitate. She slid feet-first into the metal tube, gravity taking her. The descent was faster than anticipated, metal walls scraping against her shoulders as she plummeted toward the laundry collection area below. She landed with a muffled thump in a cart of soiled linens, the impact jarring but cushioned.

The basement level hummed with industrial machinery—washing units churning, dryers tumbling, the hiss of steam pressing machines. Workers moved automatically, too focused on their tasks to notice an extra figure emerging from the pile of sheets.

Sofia oriented herself quickly. Service entrances would be nearby, probably connecting to the loading dock. She darted between massive laundry sorters, following the flow of clean linens toward where they would logically exit the facility.

A service elevator stood unattended, its doors propped open while workers unloaded supplies. Beyond it, Sofia glimpsed daylight—the loading bay, where a delivery truck idled, its rear doors open as workers transferred medical supplies.

She timed her approach carefully, waiting until the delivery men turned away before slipping into the truck's storage area. Pharmaceutical supplies lined the walls in neatly labeled containers. Sofia wedged herself behind them, pulling a tarp over her body just as voices approached.

"È tutto?" A gruff voice asked if everything was accounted for.

"Sì, andiamo." Yes, let's go.

The truck doors slammed shut, plunging Sofia into semi-darkness pierced only by thin slats of light. The engine rumbled to life, and she felt the vehicle begin to move, carrying her away from the hospital, from Natasha's supervision, from Julian's unconscious form.

Guilt twisted in her chest as the truck navigated what felt like a roundabout, then accelerated onto what was likely a main thoroughfare. The medication containers wobbled with each turn, their edges digging into her side. As the truck's movement settled into a regular rhythm, Sofia's adrenaline began to ebb, leaving room for the emotions she'd been suppressing since the bank vault.

The image of Julian collapsing against that column flooded her mind—the spreading crimson stain, his face growing ashen as life drained away. Her throat tightened painfully. In the darkness of the delivery truck, with no one to witness, Sofia finally broke down.

A sob escaped her lips, then another, tears streaming hot down her cheeks. She pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sound, shoulders shaking with the force of her grief.

"Please," she whispered, the word drowned out by the truck's engine. "Please don't let him die."

The prayer was a desperate plea to whatever forces might be listening in this city of saints and sinners. Sofia hadn't prayed since her parents' deaths. Yet here, curled among medical supplies in a stranger's delivery truck, she found herself bargaining.

"I’ll do anything. Just let him live."

Her tears subsided gradually, leaving her hollow but somehow clearer.

The truck slowed, turning onto what felt like cobblestones from the suddenly uneven ride. Sofia wiped her face with her sleeve, composing herself. Wherever they were stopping, she needed to be ready to move. The Hidden Lion was still out there, Natasha was seizing the investigation, and someone needed to find the connection between the assassin and the Venetian families he served.

When the truck finally stopped, Sofia had already planned her next moves. She would need a phone, money, and a way to contact Gabriella Ricci without being traced. Most importantly, she needed to reach Professor Blackwood again. The eccentric American might be her only remaining ally.

The rear doors swung open, flooding the compartment with sunlight. Sofia tensed, ready to spring—but the delivery men were already walking away, occupied with a clipboard and invoice at the building's service entrance. Sofia seized the moment, sliding from beneath the tarp and slipping out the back of the truck in one motion.

"Hey!" The driver's shout followed her as she hit the cobblestones running. "Ferma! Stop!"

Sofia didn't look back, her legs pumping as she burst from the service alley into a sun-drenched campo. Her sudden emergence startled a flock of pigeons into flight, their wings creating a momentary screen between her and her pursuers. She banked left, dodging between tourists photographing an old well.

The campo opened before her, transformed from its usual quiet state. Workers balanced on ladders hung streamers between buildings, their vibrant colors snapping in the breeze. Nearby, artisans applied finishing touches to elaborate floats depicting mythological scenes, the paint still glistening wet in the morning light. A woman carefully arranged masks on a display stand—feathered, jeweled creations whose empty eye sockets seemed to follow Sofia as she raced past.

Carnival. Venice was preparing for one of its legendary masquerade celebrations, the annual ritual when the city turned itself into a living theater of disguise and revelry.

Sofia realized the strategic advantage even as she ran. Crowds. Anonymity. Masks everywhere. Perfect cover for someone needing to disappear—or for an assassin hunting her.

A delivery boy on a bicycle swerved to avoid her, shouting obscenities as his cargo of fresh bread scattered. Sofia leapt over a fallen loaf, her borrowed lab coat flapping behind her. She could hear the truck driver still calling after her, his voice growing more distant with each stride.

The narrow calle ahead offered escape—a shadowed passage barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, its entrance partially concealed by a cart selling carnival masks.

Sofia charged into its darkness, the sunlight and pursuit falling away behind.

She was alone in the sinking city. To hunt a lion, she needed allies.

Chapter 18

Sofia huddled against the damp brick wall of a restaurant's service alley. The faint aroma of garlic and simmering seafood drifted from the kitchen vents above, mingling with the less pleasant scent of discarded food and canal water. She'd spent hours navigating Venice's maze-like pathways, doubling back and changing direction whenever intuition whispered she was being followed.

With shaking fingers, she dialed Nuno's number on the burner phone she'd purchased from a tourist shop with cash borrowed from a sympathetic American couple she'd convinced with a story about being robbed. The international connection rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

"No," Sofia whispered, ending the call. She checked the time—nearly midnight in Lisbon. Nuno should be awake; the old spymaster rarely slept before two. She tried again, pressing the phone harder against her ear as if physical pressure might force the connection through.

Four rings. Five. Six.

"Come on, Nuno," she begged, her voice catching. "Pick up. Please."

Just as she was about to disconnect, a grunt sounded, followed by the gravelly voice that had guided her through her darkest days at Interpol.

"This better be important," Nuno grumbled, his familiar Portuguese accent thickened by what might have been sleep or whiskey. "Do you know what time it is?"

"I need help," Sofia said simply, relief flooding through her at the sound of his voice.

A pause, then the ambient noise on Nuno's end changed—the rustle of movement, a door closing. When he spoke again, his voice was alert, all traces of drowsiness vanished.

"Location?"

"Venice. Specifically, behind Ristorante Al Paradiso near Campo Santa Marina." Sofia glanced at the kitchen door, ensuring she remained unobserved. "I'm compromised, Nuno. No official resources, no backup."

"The Bellanti case?" His tone suggested he'd been following her investigation from afar.

"It's bigger than we thought. Much bigger." Sofia lowered her voice. "Operation Laguna never ended. It evolved into something else—something with roots in Venetian noble families and branches extending through modern banking and shipping networks."

"And now you've stirred the hornet's nest," Nuno concluded, a hint of familiar exasperation coloring his words.

"Julian's been shot. He might be—" Sofia couldn't finish the sentence, the words sticking in her throat. "Natasha's taken over the investigation, sidelined me completely. But there's an assassin, Nuno. They call him Leon. He wears a porcelain mask shaped like a lion’s face."

The silence that followed lasted so long Sofia feared the connection had dropped. When Nuno spoke, his voice had softened to the gentle rumble she remembered from her earliest days under his mentorship.

"Sofia," he said, her name emerging as a sigh. "First, I need you to breathe. You're spiraling."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." His interruption was firm but kind. "I can hear it in your voice."

Sofia closed her eyes, the memory of that mission—her first real failure—washing over her. The panic that had nearly consumed her when their safe house was compromised, the way Nuno had talked her through it step by step.

"Deep breath in," Nuno instructed, his voice calm. "Count to four. Hold for two. Release for six. Again."

Sofia complied, the exercise anchoring her despite the chaos surrounding her. The night air filled her lungs—damp, tinged with salt.

"Good," Nuno affirmed after her third breath. "Now, remember our old exercise? Five things you can see."

"Nuno, there isn't time—"

"There's always time to think clearly," he countered. "Five things. Go.”

Sofia sighed but relented, knowing from experience that Nuno wouldn't proceed until she complied. She observed her surroundings.

"Porta," she began in Italian, looking at the kitchen door. "Lune," she continued in French, glancing at the moon visible between buildings. "Water" in English for the puddle at her feet. "Mauer" in German for the brick wall behind her. "Gato" in Portuguese for the stray cat watching her from a stack of crates.

With each word, each language, Sofia felt her racing thoughts slow, her breathing deepen. The technique had always seemed ridiculous to her when Nuno first taught it—a silly distraction from real problems. Yet somehow, it worked, forcing her mind to switch linguistic gears, to focus on present sensory details rather than spiraling catastrophes.

"Better?" Nuno asked after she completed the exercise.

"Yes," Sofia admitted, surprised to find it true. Her pulse had steadied, her thoughts clarifying. "Thank you."

"Focus on what you can control.”

“Leon,” she said at last. “The assassin. He’s key. If anyone killed the professor, shot Julian, it’s him.”

"Leon is more than an assassin," Nuno said. "He's a legend in certain intelligence circles. A ghost story operatives tell each other."

Sofia pressed closer to the damp wall, straining to hear. "What do you know about him?"

"Not him—them. The title passes from father to son, possibly for generations. Always serving the same masters." A pause, then the sound of liquid being poured. "I encountered rumors during an operation in Milan, 1997. An assassination attributed to Leon—a UN special envoy investigating banking irregularities. Official ruling: heart attack."

"Two years after Farnese's death," Sofia realized. "The same pattern."

"The current Leon would be third or fourth generation. Highly trained from childhood in specialized combat techniques. Some say the training methods border on... inhumane."

A chill crawled up Sofia's spine that had nothing to do with the night air. "Julian couldn't anticipate his movements. Said he'd never seen anyone move like that."

"Few have lived to describe the experience," Nuno replied grimly. "Listen carefully, Sofia. This is too dangerous. You need to back off. Leave this to Interpol.”

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “I can’t, Nuno. He shot Julian. He killed someone. Tried to kill another person while I was with her. This is personal.”

“And that’s your first mistake. Personal is how you get killed," Nuno said, his voice hardening. "You're thinking like Sofia Costa, the woman who lost her parents, the woman who cares about Julian—not like Agent Costa, the investigator."

Sofia closed her eyes, feeling the truth in his words more than she wanted to admit. "I don't have the luxury of separation right now."

"Then find it," Nuno insisted. "Or walk away entirely."

A sound at the end of the alley made Sofia shrink deeper into the shadows. A kitchen worker emerged, tossing a bag of garbage into a bin before returning inside, oblivious to her presence.

"I need resources," Sofia whispered once the door closed. "Somewhere to hide, information on Venetian noble families connected to Operation Laguna, and a way to identify the current Leon."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by Nuno's breathing. She could almost see him in his book-lined study in Lisbon, weighing options as he'd done for decades.

"There's a bookshop," he said finally. "Libreria Acqua Alta near Campo Santa Maria Formosa. The owner, Vittorio, was an asset during the Cold War. Tell him 'the tide brings strange treasures.' He'll provide temporary sanctuary."

Sofia committed the information to memory. "And Leon?"

"I'll make inquiries through channels that won't trigger alerts. Three hours, minimum." His voice softened again. "Sofia... Julian is stronger than you think. Don't underestimate him."

The gentleness broke through her defenses. "I found him, Nuno. I watched him bleeding out on that marble floor while I couldn't do anything to—"

"Stop," Nuno cut her off. "Right there. That's the spiral. Focus on what you can control."

Sofia took another rasping breath, forcing herself back to the practiced calm that had kept her alive through a decade of dangerous operations. "Three hours. I'll contact you from the bookshop."

"Be careful," Nuno said, the gruffness returning to his voice. "Venice has more ghosts than just Leon."

The line went dead. Sofia pocketed the phone, already figuring the quickest route to Campo Santa Maria Formosa. As she prepared to leave her temporary shelter, the kitchen door swung open again. Sofia froze, pressing herself against the wall, but this time the worker noticed the movement.

"Chi è là?" the man called, squinting into the shadows. "Who's there?"

Sofia stepped forward, adopting a sheepish tourist smile. "Mi scusi," she replied in deliberately accented Italian. "I'm lost. Looking for my hotel."

The cook studied her suspiciously, taking in her disheveled appearance—the borrowed lab coat now discarded, her clothes still rumpled from her escape. "Tourist?" he asked skeptically.

"American," Sofia lied, thickening her accent. "My first time in Venice."

The cook's suspicion vanished, his face relaxing into the resigned expression of a Venetian accustomed to disoriented foreigners. He gestured vaguely toward the alley's exit.

"Campo Santa Maria Formosa?" Sofia asked hopefully, pronouncing each syllable with deliberate American clumsiness.

The man sighed, wiping his hands on his apron before stepping fully into the alley. "Sì, sì. You go this way, then right, then second left." His heavily accented English gave fragmented directions as he pointed. "But be careful, signorina. Not good to walk alone now."

"Dangerous?" Sofia asked, injecting just the right amount of wide-eyed tourist concern into her voice.

The cook shrugged. "No, no. But tonight"—he gestured upward as if encompassing the entire city—"il festival di mezzanotte. Very crowded. Many people drinking, wearing masks. Easy to get lost."

Sofia tilted her head in apparent confusion. "Festival?"

"Carnevale begins tonight. Midnight festival." He tapped his watch significantly. "You should sleep first. Rest. Will be biggest celebration in years, they say." His dark eyes studied her face more carefully. "You look tired, signorina. Not good to be exhausted during Carnevale. Too easy to make... mistakes."

There was something in his tone that made Sofia wonder if his warning extended beyond simple tourist advice. Before she could probe further, he reached into his pocket and extracted a small, simple mask—plain white with silver edging around the eyes.

"Take," he offered, pressing it into her hand. "Everyone wears mask tonight. Safer this way."

Sofia accepted the gift with genuine gratitude. "Grazie, signore."

He nodded once, then turned back toward the kitchen. At the door, he paused. "Campo Santa Maria Formosa—follow the music. Celebrations already starting."

The door closed behind him, leaving Sofia alone once more in the damp alley. She examined the mask in her hands—a basic domino style that would cover only her eyes and the bridge of her nose but sufficient to obscure her identity in the festival crowds. Perfect camouflage in a city preparing for a swirling masquerade.

As she slipped into the narrow passageways leading toward the campo, Sofia could already hear the distant sounds of Carnevale awakening—drums resounding across water, laughter spilling from open windows, the occasional burst of string music drifting through the night air. Venice was donning its most ancient disguise, becoming once more the city of secrets and revelry.

Chapter 19

Sofia slumped into a threadbare armchair tucked between towering stacks of water-damaged books. Libreria Acqua Alta lived up to its name—"Bookstore of High Water"—with volumes piled in bathtubs and gondolas throughout the cramped shop, a bizarre defense against the acqua alta floods that regularly invaded Venice's lower levels.

Vittorio, the ancient proprietor with gnarled hands and eyes like sapphires, had accepted Nuno's coded message without question. He'd guided Sofia through a hidden door concealed behind a bookcase of maritime histories, revealing a tiny living space where resistance fighters had once hidden during the war.

"Rest," he'd instructed in the formal Italian of an educated man. "No one finds this place who isn't meant to."

That had been four hours ago. Now, as the first of the festival’s fireworks streaked the sky, Sofia fought exhaustion while poring over the materials Vittorio had provided—genealogies of noble families, old newspaper clippings about mysterious deaths spanning decades, and records of shipping manifests with suspicious cargo designations.

The burner phone vibrated against her hip. Sofia answered on the first pulse.

"Nuno?"

"I found him." His voice was tight with excitement that overcame his usual restraint. "The original Leon—I know where he's buried."

Sofia straightened, fatigue evaporating. "Where?"

"San Michele cemetery, northeastern section. The family mausoleum has no name, only their crest—the lion's head." Papers rustled on Nuno's end. "According to my source, the first Leon died in 1979, passing his title to his son. The current Leon would be his grandson."

"A name, Nuno. I need a name."

"That's where it gets interesting." More rustling. “I don’t know the name. I just know where he’s buried.”

“How’s that possible?”

"The family deliberately obscured their connection," Nuno explained. "Public records show the mausoleum belongs to the Contarini family, but my source says that's misdirection. The actual bloodline operates under a different name entirely—one they've kept separate from their... professional activities."

Sofia's mind raced, connecting ideas. "A noble family hiding in plain sight."

"Precisely. And whoever they are, they've maintained their position in Venetian society for generations while simultaneously operating as the enforcement arm of the Hidden Lion consortium." Nuno's voice lowered. "There's more. My source mentioned a ritual—something about the transferring of the title from father to son involving a special mask."

"The porcelain lion," Sofia exclaimed.

"Yes. Apparently, it's more than disguise—it's a symbol of office. The mask itself might be centuries old."

Sofia glanced at the carnival mask the cook had given her, its simple white surface catching moonlight from the window. Outside, the sounds of celebration grew louder—music, laughter, the occasional spark of fireworks lighting the tiny room in brief flashes of color.

"Tonight would be perfect for him," she realized aloud. "Hundreds of masked figures in the streets. The ultimate camouflage."

"Which is why you need to stay hidden," Nuno insisted. "At least until morning when—"

A knock at the hidden door silenced them both. Sofia tensed, eyes darting to the small window—her only other exit, barely wide enough for her shoulders and opening directly onto a narrow canal.

"Someone's here," she whispered.

"Don't answer," Nuno commanded. "It could be—"

“I asked her to come,” Sofia cut in. “The dead professor’s archivist. She’s an ally.”

The knock came again, more insistent. Then a voice—female, young, unsure.

"Sofia? It's Gabriella Ricci. Please. I have information about Julian."

Sofia's heart lurched at Julian's name. "I have to go," she told Nuno.

"Sofia, wait—"

She ended the call, tucking the phone away as she approached the door cautiously. "Prove it's you," she called through the wooden panel.

"You helped me breathe in the basilica," Gabriella replied at once. "Five things I could see. Mosaico, tourists, luce, altar... and you."

Sofia unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough to verify Gabriella's identity before yanking her inside and securing it again. The archivist looked even more frightened than when they'd fled the masked attackers, her olive skin ashen, her dark eyes wide with barely contained panic.

"Thanks for coming," Sofia whispered.

"Julian's alive," Gabriella blurted out, her words tumbling forward in rushed Italian before she caught herself and switched to English. "They've moved him to a private clinic on the mainland. I overheard Natasha arranging it—she doesn't trust the security at the public hospital."

Relief flooded through Sofia so powerfully she had to grip the edge of a nearby bookshelf to steady herself. "He's going to be okay?"

"The doctor said he's stabilized." Gabriella clutched a worn leather messenger bag to her chest. "But that's not why I risked coming here. I've found something—something that could identify who's behind all this."

She opened her bag, removing a manila folder stuffed with documents. "After you left me with your colleague, I couldn't just sit around waiting. I went back to Marco's research notes—the ones I'd hidden in my apartment before everything happened."

Sofia watched as Gabriella spread the papers across a table, pushing aside stacks of books to make room. The archivist's earlier terror had been replaced by scholarly determination, her hands steadying as she arranged the documents in some private organizational system.

"Marco was investigating political connections," she explained, tapping a particular page covered in handwritten annotations. "Not just the noble families, but their modern influence. Look at these campaign contributions."

Sofia leaned closer, examining what appeared to be financial records. "These are massive donations."

"All from shell companies linked to the families involved in Operation Laguna," Gabriella confirmed, her voice gaining strength. "And they all point to one recipient—Ministro Alessio Valente."

"The Minister of Cultural Heritage?" Sofia's brow furrowed. "Why would they—"

"Because he controls all archaeological and historical preservation in Venice," Gabriella interrupted, her academic passion momentarily overcoming her fear. "Every restoration project, every excavation, every historical site—nothing happens without his department's approval."

She pulled out another document—a map of Venice with certain areas highlighted in red. "These are all sites where Marco believed artifacts were being smuggled out under the guise of restoration work. Priceless antiquities, documents, even architectural elements—all disappearing into private collections."

Sofia studied the map, recognition dawning. "And these sites all correspond to the shipping manifests from Farnese's safety deposit box."

"Exactly!" Gabriella's eyes shone with vindication. "Marco believed Valente was protecting the entire operation—signing permits that allowed the families to continue their smuggling network while presenting a respectable political face."

Sofia nodded. "Valente is the public shield for the Hidden Lion."

"And there's more." Gabriella pulled out a final document—a heavily redacted government memo with official seals. "Marco obtained this through a contact in Rome. It shows that Valente authorized special access to San Michele cemetery three years ago—specifically to restore a private mausoleum."

Sofia's eyes widened. "The Contarini mausoleum."

"Yes," Gabriella confirmed, her voice turning to a whisper. "But according to Marco's notes, the actual name on the burial records doesn't match. He believed the true identity of the family behind Leon was hidden there—perhaps on the original internment documents or on the sarcophagus itself."

Sofia paced the small room. The cemetery would be deserted during Carnevale celebrations, with everyone drawn to the festivities in the main squares. If they could access the mausoleum, find proof of Leon's true identity...

"We need to go to San Michele," Sofia said, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. "Tonight. We need to see that mausoleum ourselves."

Gabriella flinched. "The cemetery? Now? But it's after midnight—it's closed."

"Which makes it our best opportunity," Sofia countered, gathering the scattered documents. "The entire city is distracted by Carnevale. Security will be focused on crowd control in the main areas."

Gabriella's hands shook as she clutched her bag. "You're talking about breaking into a cemetery."

"I'm talking about finding the name of the man who killed Marco and shot Julian," Sofia replied, her voice firm. "The evidence is there, Gabriella. The real name of the family behind Leon—the key to exposing everything."

Chapter 20

Fear and determination warred in Gabriella's expression. "I... I'm not brave like you. I'm an archivist. I work with old papers, not..." She gestured helplessly.

Sofia relaxed, remembering how this young woman had already risked everything to preserve Bellanti's research. "You are brave," she said gently. "You've already shown that. I wouldn't ask if there were another way."

Gabriella took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders with visible effort. "Marco would have gone," she said. "He would have wanted the truth, no matter what."

"So you'll come?"

A single, decisive nod. "Yes. For Marco."

Sofia crossed to the window, peering out at the canal below. Distant music floated across the water, interrupted by occasional bursts of laughter and the pop of fireworks. A city-wide masquerade that would provide perfect cover—and perfect distraction.

"We'll need to move quickly," she said, turning back to Gabriella. "The vaporetto to San Michele stops running at one. If we miss it..."

"There's another way," Gabriella offered suddenly. "Marco sometimes borrowed a small boat from a friend near Academia. For his research trips to the outer islands." She bit her lip. "I still have the key."

Sofia smiled for the first time in what felt like days. "Then we have our transportation." She reached for the simple white carnival mask the cook had given her. As she turned it in her hands, a flicker of movement in the canal below caught her attention.

Sofia froze, pressing closer to the window. Two figures stood in the shadows beneath a nearby bridge, their faces covered by carnival masks—one a silver wolf, the other a black raven with a curved beak. Despite the festivities, something about their stillness set alarm bells ringing in Sofia's mind. They weren't celebrating. They were watching.

"Gabriella," Sofia whispered, backing away from the window. "Were you followed here?"

The archivist's eyes widened. "I—I don't think so. I was careful." Her hands fluttered nervously. "Why?"

"There are two men in masks outside." Sofia moved quickly to extinguish the room's single lamp, plunging them into darkness. "Standing too still. Watching this building."

"Oh God," Gabriella breathed, panic returning to her voice. "You think they're—"

"I don't know." Sofia crept back to the window, keeping to the edge where she wouldn't be seen. The men remained in position, one speaking into what appeared to be a communication device. "But they're definitely not regular carnival-goers."

Gabriella clutched her bag tighter. "It's possible I was followed. I tried to be careful, but... there were so many people in masks. Anyone could have—"

"Damn it," Sofia cursed. The hidden room suddenly felt like a trap. "We need to go. Now. Before they call for backup."

"But how? If they're watching—"

Sofia turned to Gabriella, a decision forming. "Do you have a mask? Something for the festival?"

"Y-yes," Gabriella stammered, reaching into her bag. She produced a simple half-mask of dark blue with silver filigree. "I bought it earlier. Everyone was wearing them, so I thought..."

"Put it on," Sofia instructed, slipping her own white mask over her eyes. "We're going to walk right past them."

"What?" Gabriella's voice rose in alarm.

"The streets are full of masked revelers. Two more won't draw attention." Sofia moved to the door, listening for any sound of approach. "It's our only chance—hide in plain sight."

Gabriella's hands shook as she tied the blue mask in place. "I don't think I can do this."

"You can." Sofia gripped her shoulders. "Remember what Marco would want. Remember why we're doing this."

Something steadied in Gabriella's expression at the mention of Bellanti. She nodded.

Sofia checked the window once more—the men remained in position, but now a third figure had joined them. The newcomer's mask was different—more elaborate, with gilded edges catching the moonlight.

"Now," Sofia whispered, opening the hidden door. "Walk like you belong to the celebration. Laugh if I do."

They slipped from the bookshop into a passage that connected to the main street. The sounds of Carnevale enveloped them—accordions playing traditional folk melodies, the multilingual chatter of tourists and locals alike surrendering to the festival's magic.

Sofia guided Gabriella into the flow of revelers, their masked faces blending with dozens of others. A group of drunken British tourists staggered past, their store-bought masks askew, singing off-key. Sofia pulled Gabriella into their midst, matching their carefree gait.

"Keep moving," she mumbled through a fixed smile. "Don't look back."

They crossed a bridge, the canal beneath reflecting colored lanterns strung between buildings. Sofia risked a glance over her shoulder. The masked watchers had emerged from their hiding place, scanning the crowds with greedy focus.

"They're following," Gabriella whispered, her voice tight with fear.

"Stay calm." Sofia steered them toward a denser portion of the crowd where a street performer juggled flaming torches. "When I squeeze your hand, drop to your knees like you've lost something."

The crowd thickened as they approached the performer's circle. Sofia counted their steps, waiting until they were almost directly opposite their pursuers. Then she squeezed Gabriella's hand.

Both women dropped down, disappearing from sight. Sofia pulled Gabriella in a crouch through a forest of legs, emerging on the opposite side of the circle just as the juggler tossed his torches high into the air. The crowd gasped collectively, heads tilting upward—including those of their masked pursuers.

"Now," Sofia hissed, tugging Gabriella upright. They darted down a side alley as the crowd erupted in applause behind them.

"Did we lose them?" Gabriella gasped as they ran.

"Temporarily," Sofia replied, not slowing. "Where's this boat?"

"Near Academia. Not far."

They wove through Venice's passages, the sounds of celebration gradually fading behind them. Sofia led them through increasingly narrow calli, choosing paths too constricted for effective pursuit.

The Academia district appeared quieter, its museums and galleries closed for the night. Gabriella took the lead until they reached a private dock where several boats bobbed in the dark water.

"That one," she whispered, pointing to a wooden craft barely large enough for three people. "Marco called it 'La Formichetta'—The Little Ant." She fumbled with a key as she unlocked the chain securing the small vessel. "It's not fast, but it's quiet."

Sofia helped Gabriella into the boat, searching the darkened calli behind them for any sign of pursuit. The water lapped against the hull as Sofia untied the mooring rope and pushed them away from the dock. An outboard motor sat at the stern, its housing worn by years of exposure to the lagoon's salt water.

"Can you operate it?" Sofia asked, settling onto the seat beside Gabriella.

The archivist nodded, her fingers moving with surprising confidence as she primed the engine. "Marco taught me. He said everyone in Venice should know how to navigate the water." Her voice caught on his name. "He loved this little boat."

The motor coughed once, twice, then hummed to life, the sound stifled by the distant carousing of Carnevale. Gabriella guided them away from the dock, keeping close to the shadows cast by overhanging buildings. The water parted smoothly before their bow, ripples spreading outward.

It lay before them like black glass, their small craft gliding silently.  Sofia kept her eyes trained on the wider canal ahead, where they would need to cross more exposed waters to reach San Michele's shores.

"Stay close to the buildings," she instructed. "Use their shadows for—"

Her words died as they rounded the bend into the Grand Canal. A procession of massive floats blocked their path entirely—towering structures sailing through the water like phantasmagorical islands. Dragons with scales of hammered gold, winged lions with ruby eyes, mermaids draped in pearls—each float a masterpiece, each surrounded by smaller boats holding musicians and costumed partygoers.

"Dio mio," Gabriella breathed, her hands freezing on the motor's tiller. "The midnight parade. I forgot."

Sofia stared at the spectacle blocking their escape route.

"We can't go around," Sofia realized aloud. "And we can't wait. Those men could already be checking the docks."

"What do we do?" Gabriella's voice wavered behind her mask.

Sofia took in the approaching procession. The floats moved with stately grace, creating gaps between them as they navigated the canal's bend. Between the second and third float—a massive peacock trailing feathers and what appeared to be a Renaissance palazzo floating on gilded clouds—she spotted a potential passage.

"There." She pointed. "When I say now, give the motor everything. We'll cut through between the peacock and the palazzo."

"Are you insane?" Gabriella hissed. "Those gaps close! The currents between them could flip us!"

"It's our only chance," Sofia insisted, eyes fixed on the floats. The gap closed, then opened again as the floats adjusted their course with the water's natural flow. "Trust me."

Gabriella's knuckles whitened on the tiller, but she nodded, her jaw set with determination beneath her blue mask.

The music grew louder as the procession drew nearer—drums and horns seemed to vibrate through the water. Costumed figures danced on each float, their movements made otherworldly by masks and flowing garments that caught the wind. On the peacock float, performers in iridescent costumes enacted some traditional myth, their motions stylized.

"Ready," Sofia muttered, gauging the distance, the speed, the gap's fluctuating width. "Steady… Now!" Sofia commanded.

Gabriella twisted the throttle. The little boat surged forward, its bow lifting as they accelerated toward the gap between the massive floats. Water churned around them, the wake from the larger vessels creating treacherous cross-currents that threatened to slam them against the hulls on either side.

"Faster!" Sofia urged, bracing herself against the gunwale as they entered the shadow of the peacock float. Above them, performers froze, their faces turning downward in surprise at the tiny craft daring to breach their procession.

The gap shrunk alarmingly. Sofia could almost touch the edge of the palazzo float to their right, its windows revealing costumed performers who pressed against the glass in astonishment. To their left, the peacock's enormous tail feathers dipped precariously close to the water's surface, threatening to ensnare their motor.

"We're not going to make it," Gabriella gasped.

"Yes, we are," Sofia asserted, leaning to counterbalance as a wave nearly capsized them. "Just hold steady!"

The noise was overwhelming—music from both floats clashing, shouts from alarmed security personnel, the thunder of machinery propelling the massive structures through the water. Their little boat bucked and shuddered as conflicting currents grabbed at its hull.

Then suddenly, they were through, bursting into open water beyond the procession like a cork from a bottle. Gabriella cut the engine to half-speed, her breathing ragged.

"I can't believe we made it," she whispered, her voice barely discernible over the receding parade.

Sofia watched the waters behind them. No pursuit—yet. The parade had inadvertently provided perfect cover, the spectacle consuming all attention. She turned forward, orienting herself by the distant silhouette of San Michele rising from the lagoon's waters.

"Head northeast," she instructed, pointing toward the cemetery island. "Stay away from the main vaporetto routes."

As they sailed farther from the Grand Canal, Venice's bustle was replaced by the gentle lapping of water. San Michele's silhouette grew more distinct—cypress trees standing against the night sky, the island's encircling walls reflecting moonlight in pale streaks across the water.

"There's a service entrance on the eastern side," Gabriella said, steering toward a section of wall partially concealed by overhanging trees. "Groundskeepers use it. Marco showed me once when we were researching a composer's burial site."

Sofia nodded, impressed despite herself by the archivist's extensive knowledge. As they approached the island, she studied its perimeter.

"There," Sofia pointed to a rarely used dock on the cemetery's eastern edge. "Can you bring us in quietly?"

Gabriella cut the engine, allowing the tide to carry them the final distance. Sofia reached out, catching a post as they drifted alongside the dock. The wood felt damp beneath her fingers, slick with the peculiar green slime that coated everything at the water's edge.

They secured the boat in silence. San Michele’s cypress trees swayed in the night breeze, their shadows stretching across crumbling tombstones.

"The wall isn't high on this side," Sofia observed, studying the barrier before them. "The city never expected anyone to break into a cemetery."

Gabriella shivered visibly despite the mild night. "This feels wrong," she whispered. "Disturbing the dead."

Sofia shook her head. “On behalf of the living. Let’s go.”

It took some coaxing, but Gabriella finally agreed, following Sofia into the dark. Mist rose from the graveyard, and as it swirled at Sofia’s ankles, she turned at a particularly large flash of fireworks. The colors shone in the waters below.

A light caught Sofia's eye—not the celebratory fireworks, but something more focused. A spotlight, tracking across the water's surface.

"Get down!" she hissed, pulling Gabriella into a crouch behind a low wall.

The beam swept past their position, bathing the tombs in stark white light before continuing its arc across the cemetery grounds. Sofia peered cautiously over the wall, her blood turning cold at what she saw.

A motorboat cut through the dark waters toward their position, its bow slicing the mist that hovered above the lagoon. Unlike the festive vessels crowding Venice's canals tonight, this craft moved with purpose. Four figures stood aboard, each wearing a carnival mask—two silver wolves, a black raven, and at the helm, a figure in a gold-trimmed mask resembling a fox.

"They found us," Gabriella whispered, her voice nearly drowned out by the approaching boat's engine.

Chapter 21

"Inside. Now!" Sofia grabbed Gabriella's wrist, abandoning any pretense of stealth as they sprinted deeper into the cemetery. The spotlight swiveled behind them, catching only the trailing edge of their shadows as they ducked between towering mausoleums and stone crosses.

The mist thickened around them, rising from the damp earth. It swirled at their ankles, then their knees, obscuring pathways and turning familiar shapes into looming threats.

"Which way to the Contarini mausoleum?" Sofia whispered, pulling Gabriella behind an angel statue whose feathered wings offered concealment.

Gabriella's breath came in short gasps, her eyes wide behind her blue mask. "Northeastern section," she panted. "But the paths—they're confusing in daylight, let alone now."

The sound of boots hitting the dock traveled through the fog. Orders were barked in hushed Italian—professional, clipped commands that confirmed Sofia's fears. These weren't random pursuers. They were trained assassins.

"We need to keep moving," Sofia urged, studying the landscape before them. Rows of tombs lay in every direction, some modest, others elaborate markers of wealth and status. The mist parted momentarily, revealing a central pathway cutting through the cemetery's heart.

"That way," Gabriella pointed toward a group of cypress trees whose tops pierced the fog like black spears. "The oldest noble families are buried near the eastern wall."

They moved quickly but carefully, Sofia instinctively placing her feet to minimize noise. The mist provided cover but also disorientation—landmarks appeared and disappeared like fever dreams, distances became impossible to judge. Twice they had to double back when paths ended at locked mausoleums or crumbling walls.

Behind them, flashlight beams broke through the fog—their pursuers had split up, quartering the cemetery. The occasional crackle of radio communication carried unnaturally in the air.

"There," Gabriella breathed, pointing toward a structure that rose from the mist.

The Contarini mausoleum stood apart from its neighbors, its neoclassical exterior weathered by winters. Twin columns framed an iron gate worked into intricate scrolls, while above, stone lions guarded a pediment carved with the family crest—a shield with the distinctive lion's head that had haunted Sofia since finding it on Bellanti's murder weapon.

"The entrance will be locked," Sofia said, studying the gate. She spotted a chunk of concrete from a headstone nearby. “This is going to make some noise,” Sofia warned.

She grabbed the concrete chunk, holding it tight in one hand. A strange prickle crawled up her spine as she moved through the dark. She held her breath, sending up a soft prayer.

She looked back at the archivist. “It’s funny…” she said. “The detective… Detective Ricci, he looked like you.”

“Detective who?” she asked.

Sofia shook her head.

"Detective Ricci. The one who first interviewed me after I found Bellanti's body.” She raised the concrete chunk again, then paused, turning back and still frowning. “Come to think of it… How did they find us at the bookstore?”

Gabriella just looked flustered. “W-what?”

Sofia could hear approaching footsteps now. No more time. But a small, gnawing, niggling sensation clouded her mind. She refocused.

Sofia smashed the concrete against the rusted lock with decisive force. The metallic crack reverberated through the cemetery, bouncing between mausoleums. Both women froze, listening intently as the sound faded. Distant voices shouted in response—their pursuers had heard.

"Quick," Sofia whispered, pushing against the old gate. It groaned in protest, fighting her efforts until it finally yielded enough for them to slip through.

Inside, the air changed—colder, heavier with the scent of forgotten incense. Sofia pulled a small penlight from her pocket, shining its thin beam across the interior. Marble sarcophagi lined the walls, their carved surfaces depicting scenes of naval victories and diplomatic triumphs. Names and dates going back centuries, the Contarini legacy preserved in stone.

"Look for anything unusual," Sofia instructed, moving deeper into the mausoleum. "Something that doesn't match the official records."

Gabriella nodded, her scholarly curiosity overcoming her fear as she examined the inscriptions. "The Contarini were one of the founding families of Venice," she whispered. "Doges, admirals, diplomats..."

Sofia noticed a discrepancy in the stone floor—a section where the patterns didn't quite align. "Here," she called. "Help me with this."

Together they pushed against what appeared to be a decorative panel. It slid with surprising ease, revealing stone steps descending into darkness.

"A crypt below the crypt," Gabriella breathed.

The staircase spiraled downward, each step worn smooth. At the bottom, Sofia's light revealed a chamber—not the expected burial room but something far more astonishing.

The walls were lined with masks. Dozens of them, arranged chronologically, each a porcelain lion face identical to the one worn by Julian's shooter. Beneath each mask hung a portrait—men with the same aristocratic features repeated through generations, their eyes holding the same cold calculation despite the changing styles of their attire.

"My God," Gabriella whispered, moving closer to examine the earliest portrait. "This dates to the 1600s."

Sofia's attention fixed on a plaque centered on the far wall. Unlike the intricate Contarini monuments above, this inscription was plain:

FAMILIA LEONESSA

CUSTODES LEONIS ABSCONDITI

1624–PRAESENS

"Leonessa," Sofia translated. "The Lion Family. Guardians of the Hidden Lion since 1624."

"That's not a noble name I recognize," Gabriella said, frowning.

"Because they hide behind the Contarini," Sofia realized, looking at a document case mounted beneath the plaque. Inside, preserved behind glass, lay what appeared to be a family tree—its branches extending through the years, connecting names and dates in faded ink.

Sofia leaned closer. The document was written in an archaic form of Italian, the handwriting formal. Her eyes followed the branching lines, each generation of Leonessa paired with their public identity—the name they presented to Venetian society while serving as the Hidden Lion's enforcers.

Then her light landed on a familiar name near the bottom of the document.

Ricci.

Sofia froze, processing the implications. Her eyes darted across the family tree, following the connection upward to a marriage, then down to a birth date approximately thirty years ago.

Gabriella Ricci.

And the detective who'd first interviewed her about Bellanti's murder. Detective Ricci. The strong resemblance between them—not coincidence but family. Father and daughter.

Sofia's mind raced, reaching terrible clarity. How their pursuers had found them at the bookstore. How Gabriella had appeared with crucial information at exactly the right moment. How she'd known where to find this mausoleum. The first encounter—gunmen who missed. A ploy… for who?

For her, Sofia realized. She’d been the target. A trick.

And she’d been tricked again.

An agonizing prickle crept up her spine. Sofia kept her voice even, not turning around as she continued studying the document as if she hadn't noticed. "The current Leon would be in his thirties," she commented, buying time as her hand moved toward where her weapon would be—if she still had one. "Trained from childhood to take his father's place."

The change in Gabriella's breathing behind her confirmed everything.

Sofia turned slowly, unsurprised to find herself staring down the barrel of a pistol held in Gabriella's hand. The archivist had removed her blue carnival mask, showing features that now seemed obviously similar to the detective who'd questioned Sofia days earlier.

"You're Leon's daughter," Sofia said, realization dawning. "The newest branch of the Leonessa family tree."

Gabriella's face had altered, the nervous vulnerability replaced by steel. Only her eyes remained the same—dark and intense, but now alight with a killer’s focus rather than a scholar's curiosity.

"Not quite," she replied, her voice stripped of its former tremor. "I'm not the daughter. I am Leon."

Sofia felt the world tilt beneath her feet. "But the photographs..."

"My grandfather. My father." Gabriella gestured with her free hand toward the portraits lining the wall. "The title passes to the most capable child, not necessarily the eldest or the male. My father recognized my... particular talents early."

She stepped closer, the gun never wavering. "Did you really think an assassin trained since childhood would be so easily identifiable? A man in his thirties, as you guessed?" A cold smile touched her lips. "The perfect disguise is to be the person no one suspects. The meek archivist. The frightened girl."

Sofia's mind replayed every interaction. The shaking hands that had steadied around a gun.

"You killed Bellanti," Sofia said. "Your own mentor."

"Marco was getting too close," Gabriella replied with a shrug. "He found this place. Found our family records. He actually believed I would help him expose this piece of Venetian history." Her laugh held no humor. "He trusted me completely."

"Like I did," Sofia said bitterly.

Gabriella tilted her head in acknowledgment. "You were quite easy to manipulate. The shared breathing exercise—a nice touch, wasn't it? I did my research on you, Sofia. Your methods. Your weaknesses." Her eyes narrowed. "Your attachment to Julian."

At Julian's name, Sofia felt a surge of fury. "You shot him."

"I did." No remorse was evident in Gabriella's features. "Though I intended to kill him. He moved at the last second—impressive reflexes."

Sofia forced her breathing to remain stable, calculating her options. The gun in Gabriella's hand remained perfectly level—the mark of someone who had held weapons since childhood.

"Why the elaborate game?" Sofia asked, buying time. "Why not just kill me when you had the chance?"

"Because you're only half the puzzle," Gabriella replied. "We needed to know what was in Farnese's safety deposit box. What evidence he'd gathered." Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Now that Natasha has it, we need to eliminate everyone who's seen it."

Sofia took a careful half-step sideways. "Including Natasha?"

"Especially Natasha," Gabriella confirmed, a predatory smile touching her lips. "Though you're my priority at the moment."

Sofia lunged forward, channeling every combat technique Julian had taught her. Her body moved with desperation, fingers aimed for Gabriella's throat, her knee targeting the assassin's midsection.

But Gabriella was already reacting—a fluid motion that seemed to bend the very air around her. Sofia's attack met nothing but empty space as Gabriella pivoted. The gun vanished, replaced by an open palm that struck Sofia's temple hard.

White light exploded behind Sofia's eyes. She felt her body crumple, losing consciousness as the cold floor rushed up to meet her. Through rapidly dimming vision, she saw Gabriella standing over her, the pretend vulnerability completely gone, replaced by the expertise of intensive training.

"I almost wish you'd been more of a challenge," Gabriella remarked, her voice muffled as darkness closed in around Sofia. "My grandfather would have appreciated your spirit."

Sofia tried to speak, to move, but her limbs no longer responded to her commands. The last thing she saw before consciousness abandoned her was Gabriella lifting a phone to her ear.

"Father," she said calmly, "I have her. Prepare the boat."

Then darkness claimed Sofia entirely.

Chapter 22

Cold water splashing against her face dragged Sofia back to consciousness. She gasped, choking as some of it entered her lungs. Her head throbbed with nauseating force, each pulse sending pain behind her eyes.

She tried to move and found her wrists bound tightly behind her back, ankles similarly secured. The surface beneath her rocked gently—a boat, moving through water. When she managed to regain her vision, she found herself staring up at a night sky partially clouded by mist, fireworks still crackling over the skyline.

"Welcome back," Gabriella's voice came from somewhere behind her. "I was beginning to worry I'd struck too hard."

Sofia tested her restraints—professional work, no give in the bindings. "Where are you taking me?" Her voice was raspy, her throat painfully dry.

"Somewhere we can have a proper conversation." Gabriella appeared in Sofia's field of vision, now dressed entirely in black, her carnival mask replaced by the porcelain lion face from the mausoleum. "There are questions that need answering before we conclude our business."

Sofia tried to orient herself, catching glimpses of passing landmarks. They were heading away from the main islands, toward the outer reaches of the lagoon where there were only abandoned industrial complexes and forgotten islets.

Sofia's mind struggled through the pain, desperately assembling fragments of facts. Detective Ricci's face superimposed over Gabriella's in her memory—the same dark eyes, the same high cheekbones. Father and daughter. The family resemblance she'd noticed but dismissed.

"Your father," Sofia said, the words tasting like ash. "The detective who interviewed me after Bellanti's murder. He was guiding the investigation.”

The porcelain mask gave a nod. "Very good. Papa has been invaluable—controlling the evidence, redirecting suspicion, ensuring official channels remain... cooperative." Gabriella's voice carried a daughter's pride. "The Leonessa family has always understood the importance of positioning. We've had members in Venice's police force for generations."

The boat rounded a decaying pier, revealing an abandoned glass factory. Its broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets,.

"A perfect trap," Sofia said aloud, nausea rising that had nothing to do with her head injury. "You and your father—perfectly placed. One to commit the murders, the other to investigate them. One to create fear, the other to offer false security."

"We prefer to think of it as balance," Gabriella replied, guiding the boat toward a partially collapsed dock. "The Hidden Lion has maintained equilibrium for centuries. Sometimes that requires... adjustments."

Horror washed through Sofia. Every moment of vulnerability she'd shared with this woman—every confidence, every strategy—had been feeding information directly to the enemy. Julian's shooting hadn't been bad luck; it had been carefully planned, with Sofia herself unwittingly providing the intelligence that made it possible.

As the boat bumped against rotting timbers, Sofia moved from shock to survival. She flexed her wrists subtly, testing the restraints' weakest points. The knots were professional—tight enough to secure, not so tight as to cut circulation. Designed for extended captivity.

Which meant Gabriella wasn't planning an instant execution. She needed information first.

"Move," Gabriella ordered, hauling Sofia to a sitting position. With surprising strength, she lifted Sofia from the boat onto the dock. "The factory floor will provide privacy for our discussion."

Sofia stumbled forward, deliberately exaggerating her disorientation. Each faltering step was mapping the terrain, noting possible weapons, identifying structural weaknesses. Her bound ankles forced an awkward shuffle, but she used the restriction to conceal her growing alertness.

She needed to think… Julian wasn’t coming. No one knew where she was.

But she had one advantage.

Her phone. Sofia’s burner had been able to dodge Natasha. But if a call was placed on her personal phone… there was a chance. Ricci didn’t know Natasha had put Sofia under supervision. Didn’t know Interpol would be tracking any call from Sofia’s phone.

But how to get Ricci to use her phone?

Sofia’s mind strained, desperate. “Natasha won’t come,” Sofia blurted suddenly. “She’s hiding. There’s no way for you to lure her out!” Sofia paused as if realizing she wasn’t sure of this. She allowed a flicker of doubt to cross her features, not so much to oversell it, but enough to matter. She frowned. “I… I will never tell you my phone’s passcode. You’ll never get it from me! I won’t let you lure Natasha.”

“Loyalty,” Ricci purred. “Admirable.”

Clearly, she didn’t know the dynamic between Sofia and Natasha Kovic. Another small advantage.

The Leon wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t direct Natasha to their location. Likely, she’d lure her to some third position with soldiers lying in wait. But if she placed a call, any call from Sofia’s phone, Natasha would have Sofia’s location.

It wasn’t much… but it was something.

Her enmity with Kovic might just end up being her saving grace.

The abandoned glass factory loomed around them, its cavernous interior swallowing the beam from Gabriella's flashlight. Remnants of industrial equipment cast shadows across decrepit walls where patches of night sky peeked through the collapsing roof. The fireworks of Carnevale peeked through shattered windows, filling the space with sporadic bits of color.

Gabriella shoved Sofia forward onto the factory floor, where concrete had cracked and buckled from decades of neglect. Water pooled in low spots, reflecting the caving ceiling like dark mirrors. The scent of rust, mildew, and stagnant lagoon water coated everything.

"Sit," Gabriella commanded, forcing Sofia onto an overturned metal barrel. The porcelain lion mask was visible in the flashlight's glow, turning her face into something inhuman.

"Where is Natasha Kovic?" Gabriella demanded, her voice harsh in the cavernous space. "I need her exact location."

Sofia lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't know."

"Don't play games with me," Gabriella circled Sofia, the mask showing nothing of her expression. "You were working with her. You know where she'd go after securing the evidence."

"I was escorted out of the hospital before any plans were made," Sofia replied, allowing genuine bitterness to color her voice. "Natasha doesn't trust me. She never has."

Gabriella stopped directly in front of Sofia, head inclined as she studied her captive. "Yet she values you enough to send agents to protect you." She reached into her pocket, withdrawing Sofia's confiscated phone. "Your passcode. Now."

Sofia pressed her lips together, saying nothing.

"We have methods that don't require your cooperation," Gabriella said conversationally, placing the phone on a rusted table nearby. She reached into another pocket and pulled out a small case. When she opened it, gleaming steel instruments caught the light—delicate tools designed for excruciating work.

"Not too late am I?" a new voice called from the shadows.

Both women turned as Detective Ricci emerged from a doorway at the far end of the factory floor. He walked with unhurried confidence, his police-issue coat exchanged for an elegant black suit that seemed at odds with the ruined building.

"Father," Gabriella acknowledged, her posture changing—somehow more formal in his presence.

Detective Ricci approached, his footsteps thudding across the concrete. Up close, the resemblance between father and daughter was unmistakable—the same intense eyes, the same aristocratic features that Sofia had glimpsed in the portraits beneath the mausoleum.

"Ms. Costa." He greeted her with chilling politeness. "I believe we've already met, though...under different circumstances." His smile never reached his eyes. "I must say, you've proven quite troublesome."

He approached casually, examining Sofia with detachment. "You're being uncooperative regarding Natasha Kovic's whereabouts."

Sofia met his gaze. "I've told her I don't know."

Ricci sighed, removing his suit jacket with deliberate care and draping it over a nearby pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, showing forearms corded with muscle unexpected in a man his age.

"I had hoped we might resolve this civilly. But time is of the essence."

The first blow came without warning—a sharp crack across Sofia's cheekbone that sent bright stars igniting behind her eyes. Before she could recover, his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back.

"The phone code," he demanded, his breath hot against her face. "Now."

Sofia gasped, tasting blood where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek. Her thoughts raced beneath the pain—this was the opportunity she needed. Let them think they were breaking her. Let them believe they were winning.

"Go to hell," she spat, forcing defiance into her voice.

Ricci's second blow targeted her ribs, driving the air from her lungs in an agonizing rush. The third struck her kidney, sending waves of nausea through her body.

"The human body is remarkable," he said conversationally between strikes. "So resilient, yet so vulnerable in specific locations." His hand found a pressure point at the base of her neck that sent white-hot agony shooting down her spine.

Sofia bit back a scream, her body arching involuntarily against the restraints. Through the haze of pain, she focused on her goal—make them use her phone. Bring Natasha here.

"Perhaps we're approaching this incorrectly," Gabriella suggested, removing her mask to reveal a face flushed with excitement.

She moved to a corner of the factory, returning with a rusted bucket. When she upended it over Sofia's head, the freezing lagoon water stole her breath more effectively than any blow. Sofia gasped, shivering violently as the icy water soaked through her clothes.

"Hypothermia begins gradually," Gabriella explained, her voice taking on a lecturer's tone. "First shivering, then confusion, then—most interestingly—a sensation of burning heat as the body loses its ability to regulate temperature. Victims often remove their clothing before death, believing they're overheating."

She placed cold fingers against Sofia's neck, checking her pulse. "Your heart rate is already elevated. How long before your core temperature drops to dangerous levels, I wonder?"

Another dousing of frigid water.

Sofia's head lolled forward, her entire body convulsing with shivers. Every breath burned in her lungs, the chill penetrating to her core. Through chattering teeth, she finally surrendered.

"8-6-4-7-9," she mumbled the numbers through trembling lips.

Ricci's eyebrows lifted. He reached for the phone, his fingers tapping the screen. The device unlocked, revealing her home screen—a photo of the Lisbon coastline, a memory from another life.

"Excellent," he mused, scrolling through her contacts. "You see, Gabriella? Patience yields results."

He found Natasha's number and dialed, putting the phone to his ear. His entire attitude changed instantly—shoulders hunching, voice rising in pitch, anxiety replacing his cruelty.

"Ms. Kovic? Thank God you answered," he exclaimed, panic threading through his words. "This is Detective Ricci. There's been a horrible accident. Sofia Costa—" He paused, as if struggling to maintain composure. "She's been badly injured. A hit and run near the Arsenale."

Sofia watched in horrified fascination as Ricci became someone else entirely—a concerned police officer, professional but deeply worried. His face contorted with convincing distress as he gave directions to an address she recognized as being on the opposite side of Venice from their current location.

"Please hurry. The ambulance is delayed due to Carnevale crowds. She's asking for you." His voice cracked. "I don't know how long she has."

He ended the call, his expression reverting. "Done," he said to Gabriella. "Our men are already in position at the Arsenale. Kovic won't survive long enough to realize the deception."

Sofia's momentary triumph gave way to despair. She'd gambled everything on Natasha tracking the call's origin, not its stated destination. If Natasha went to the Arsenale instead...

"You're a good actor," she managed through chattering teeth.

"Years of practice," Ricci replied, loosening his tie. "The Leonessa family has always understood the art of performance. My father was particularly gifted—he once maintained three separate identities for nearly a decade."

Gabriella approached, the lion mask dangling from her fingers. "What now, Father? We still need to know where she's hidden the original documents."

"In due time," Ricci replied, examining Sofia. "First, you should ensure Ms. Costa is comfortable for the remainder of our conversation."

Ricci checked his watch, frowning. "I should go now. Kovic will be arriving at the Arsenale within twenty minutes."

"You don't need to be there, Father," Gabriella protested, her hand resting possessively on the torture implements. "Your men can handle one Interpol agent."

"This particular Interpol agent has proven remarkably resourceful," Ricci replied, retrieving his jacket. "I prefer to witness her elimination personally." He cast a glance at Sofia, shivering and bound on the metal barrel. "Continue our discussion. Find out where she's hidden Bellanti's original research notes. Use whatever methods necessary."

"Of course." Gabriella's eyes gleamed with anticipation as her father moved toward the exit.

"And Gabriella," he added, pausing at the doorway, "try not to enjoy yourself too much. Effectiveness over indulgence."

The door clanged shut behind him, leaving Sofia alone with the woman who had shot Julian and murdered her own mentor. Gabriella circled slowly, tapping a slender metal instrument against her palm.

"Now," she said, leaning close enough that Sofia could see the glint of anticipation in her eyes. "Let's discuss those research notes."

Sofia's body convulsed suddenly, her eyes rolling back. A choking sound emerged from her throat as she pitched forward, tumbling from the barrel onto the concrete floor. Her body twisted unnaturally, limbs pulling against the restraints as foam gathered at the corners of her mouth.

"What the—" Gabriella stepped back, startled by the seizure. She kicked Sofia's shoulder roughly. "Stop that!"

Sofia's only response was more violent convulsions, her head slamming repeatedly against the floor with sickening thuds. Blood appeared where her scalp split against the concrete.

"Damn it!" Gabriella hissed, genuine alarm replacing her sadism. She glanced toward the factory entrance, clearly thinking. "If you die before talking, my father will be... displeased."

Sofia's convulsions intensified. Her back arched at an impossible angle, a strangled gurgle escaping her lips.

Gabriella cursed again in rapid Italian, then spun toward the door. "Watch her!" she shouted to someone outside. "Don't let her die!"

A man appeared in the doorway—broad-shouldered, wearing the silver wolf carnival mask Sofia had glimpsed earlier. He carried a semi-automatic weapon.

"What's happening?" he demanded, approaching cautiously.

"Seizure. Perhaps from the head trauma," Gabriella replied, heading toward the exit. "Don't touch her until it stops. I'm getting Dottore Massini from the boat."

The guard nodded, watching Sofia's thrashing form with obvious discomfort. As Gabriella's footsteps receded, he moved closer, his weapon trained on Sofia's convulsing form.

"Hey! Can you hear me?" he called, keeping his distance as she continued to thrash. Her eyes had rolled back, showing only whites beneath fluttering lids.

The guard glanced nervously toward the door where Gabriella had disappeared, then back at Sofia. He took another hesitant step forward, bending to get a better look.

The moment his face came within range, Sofia's convulsions stopped. Her leg shot out, hooking behind his ankle. The guard's surprise registered for only a split second before his balance failed him completely.

His head struck the concrete with a sickening crack, the wolf mask shattering on impact. Sofia rolled, driving her knee into his solar plexus with every ounce of strength she could muster. As he gasped for air, she slammed her bound feet into his temple once, twice, three times until his body went limp.

Sofia wasted no time, wriggling to position her bound hands near the unconscious guard's belt. Her fingers found his tactical knife, and she maneuvered it to cut through her restraints. The sharp blade made quick work of the bindings around her wrists.

Her hands free, she sliced through the ankle restraints, then quickly patted down the guard. She claimed his sidearm, checking the magazine—full, with one in the chamber. Perfect. She found a radio clipped to his belt, and she listened briefly to confirm it was active.

Voices crackled through—Gabriella's distinctive pitch among them, speaking rapidly in Italian about a doctor and equipment.

Sofia wiped blood from her face where she'd deliberately split her skin against the concrete. The pain was sharp but clarifying, burning away the last effects of the cold water. She moved rapidly to the factory entrance, peering through a broken window.

Outside, she could see a boat docked against the rotting pier. Three figures moved on deck—Gabriella commanding impatiently while an older man gathered what looked like medical equipment. A third guard stood watch, his back to the factory.

Sofia knew her window of opportunity was diminishing. She had perhaps two minutes before they returned—not enough time to escape across the open area to the pier without being spotted.

She searched the factory interior, seeking an alternative. The ceiling had partially collapsed in one corner, revealing rusted catwalks that had serviced the factory's upper levels. If she could reach them...

Sofia tested the guard's radio, setting it to transmit before placing it beneath a pile of debris across the factory floor. Then she moved quickly to a ladder bolted to the far wall, testing each rung before trusting it with her weight.

The metal groaned in protest but held as she ascended to the catwalk.

Detective Ricci still had her phone. There was no way to warn Natasha.

Sofia cursed.

She couldn’t run. Not now.

Forward. It was the only way. She peered down at the dock towards the three figures. Gabriella was fast, accurate and very dangerous. She needed to make her first shot count.

Chapter 23

Sofia waited on the catwalk over the doorway, breathing shallowly. A large crate teetered next to her, ready to drop the moment Gabriella entered.

The factory door screeched open, metal grinding against concrete. Sofia tensed, her finger hovering over the crate's makeshift release. Gabriella stepped through, lion mask in place.

"Paolo? Where—"

Sofia kicked the crate. It plummeted—but Gabriella moved faster, pivoting left. The crate crashed where she'd stood a heartbeat before, exploding into bits of rotted wood and tarnished metal.

Gabriella's weapon appeared in her hand as if conjured, firing upward in a single motion. Bullets sparked off the catwalk's metal railing inches from Sofia's face, sending hot shards slicing across her cheek. Another shot punched through the grating near her foot as Sofia rolled backward, drawing the guard's pistol.

A searing pain blazed across Sofia's thigh—a bullet finding its mark, tearing through flesh. She gritted her teeth against the scream building in her throat, raising her weapon again. Three rapid shots sounded through the factory, forcing Gabriella into cover behind a furnace.

Movement at the doorway caught Sofia's peripheral vision—two more guards charging in, weapons at the ready. She pivoted, muscle memory taking over as she squeezed the trigger twice. The first man dropped, a clean shot to the center mass. The second staggered, firing wildly before Sofia's follow-up shot caught him in the throat.

Below, Gabriella broke cover, limping toward the exit—Sofia's earlier shot had found its mark after all. Blood darkened the assassin's left pant leg as she moved with determination despite her injury.

Sofia tracked her through the sights, squeezing off two more rounds. Gabriella ducked as bullets shattered bricks near her head, then disappeared through the doorway.

Sofia scrambled down the ladder, ignoring the fierce pain in her thigh. Outside, she caught a glimpse of Gabriella limping rapidly toward the boat, where the doctor cowered behind the wheelhouse.

Sofia steadied herself against the factory wall, aiming her weapon. She fired twice more, forcing Gabriella to dive behind a stack of rotting crates on the pier. The doctor panicked, starting the boat's engine.

Sofia's gaze locked on the vessel's exposed fuel tanks. She drew a deep breath. One shot. Make it count.

The pistol bucked in her hands. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the fuel tank erupted in a blinding flash, the explosion lifting the boat's stern from the water before engulfing it in roaring flames. The shock wave knocked Sofia backward, the heat searing her face even from thirty meters away.

Burning debris rained down, igniting the pier. Through the inferno, Sofia caught movement—a dark silhouette diving into the lagoon's murky waters. Gabriella, escaping the flames.

Sofia staggered forward, pressing her palm against her bleeding thigh. Each step sent jolts of agony up her leg, but she forced herself toward the burning pier.

At the water's edge, Sofia watched the choppy surface. Ripples spread outward where Gabriella had disappeared, but the assassin herself remained invisible beneath the dark water. Sofia raised her weapon, looking for disturbances in the lagoon's surface, waiting for Gabriella to emerge.

A splash to her right—Sofia pivoted, firing instantly. Water sprayed where her bullet struck, but Gabriella had already disappeared again. The assassin was playing with her, using the water as cover between breaths.

"You can't hide forever," Sofia called, her voice even despite the pain threatening to overwhelm her. "Neither of us can breathe underwater."

Only silence answered, broken by the crackling of flames behind her. Sofia took another step closer to the water's edge, forcing her breathing to slow, her senses to sharpen. The pain in her leg receded as her focus narrowed.

There—a perceptible movement fifteen meters out. Sofia followed it, anticipating where Gabriella would surface next. When a head broke the water, Sofia was already squeezing the trigger.

The shot cracked across the water, but Gabriella had anticipated it, diving again an instant before the bullet found its mark. Sofia cursed under her breath, ejecting the magazine to check her remaining ammunition. Three rounds. Not enough.

A sudden splash directly before her—too close, too sudden. Sofia fired as Gabriella erupted from the water. The bullet grazed the assassin's shoulder, tearing fabric but not slowing her advance. Before Sofia could fire again, Gabriella's hand clamped around her wrist, twisting with inhuman strength.

The gun clattered to the ground as Sofia's wrist bones ground together. She drove her knee upward, aiming for Gabriella's wounded leg, but the assassin turned, using Sofia's momentum to throw her off balance. They crashed to the ground together, rolling dangerously close to the burning pier.

Sofia clawed at Gabriella's face, her nails finding the assassin's cheek. Blood welled from the scratches, but Gabriella's grip only tightened, cutting off Sofia's air. Black spots danced at the edge of Sofia's vision as she fought for breath. Her hand scrabbled blindly along the ground, fingers closing around a jagged piece of metal from the exploded boat.

With a last surge of strength, Sofia drove the metal shard into Gabriella's side. The assassin's grip loosened momentarily—enough for Sofia to buck upward, throwing them both sideways.

They crashed into the lagoon, the dark water closing over them. The sudden cold shocked Sofia's system as they sank beneath the surface. Gabriella's fingers found Sofia's throat again, squeezing with renewed determination as bubbles escaped from Sofia's mouth.

Sofia fought through the pain, twisting her body to get leverage. Her lungs burned for air as Gabriella forced her deeper, the assassin's training evident in her ability to remain calm underwater. Sofia drove her knee repeatedly into Gabriella's wounded thigh, feeling the other woman's grip falter slightly with each impact.

They spiraled through the depths, trading positions. Sofia broke free momentarily, kicking toward the surface, but Gabriella seized her ankle, yanking her back down. Sofia's hand found Gabriella's face, thumbs pressing toward eyes.

Gabriella released her to protect herself, and Sofia kicked hard for the surface. She managed a single desperate gasp of air before Gabriella surfaced beside her, driving them both beneath the waves again.

The water turned pink around them as their wounds bled freely. Sofia's vision began to tunnel, her oxygen-starved brain struggling to coordinate her movements. Gabriella wrapped herself around Sofia like a serpent, legs locking around her waist as she kept Sofia's head beneath the surface.

In desperation, Sofia reached for the metal shard still protruding from Gabriella's side. She grasped it and twisted, feeling it tear deeper. Gabriella's silent scream released a torrent of bubbles as her grip loosened enough for Sofia to break away.

Sofia clawed upward, her movements growing weaker with each stroke. Her lungs felt ready to burst, muscles burning with exertion and oxygen deprivation. Just as her body began to surrender, her face broke the surface. She gulped air greedily, coughing and sputtering as she treaded water.

Gabriella surfaced three meters away, her face full of fury despite the pain evident in her eyes. Blood spread around her in a widening circle, the metal shard now missing from her side.

“Don’t move!” a voice shouted.

A bright light spotlighted both of them.

“Interpol! Hands up!”

Sofia turned, blinking against the light. Gabriella stared, then released a snarl like a wounded cat.

A figure stood at the helm of the boat, agents crowding behind her. Proud, tall, gun in hand, the woman at the front looked like an avenging goddess.

The glare in her eyes was directed at Sofia.

And yet, the guns were pointed at Gabriella Ricci.

Never before in her life had Sofia been so glad to see Natasha Kovic.

Chapter 24

Sofia winced as the medic finished tying the bandage around her thigh. Dawn painted the skyline in watercolor hues, the carnival's revelry finally quieted. Her soaked clothes had been replaced with tactical gear borrowed from one of Natasha's team members—too large but dry. The bullet wound throbbed beneath its fresh dressing, but Sofia refused the offered painkillers. She needed clarity now more than comfort.

Across the makeshift command post, Gabriella Ricci sat in the back of an armored transport vehicle, her wrists shackled, her dark eyes still burning with fury. Four agents surrounded her, weapons ready despite her restraints. They'd learned not to underestimate her abilities.

"You should be in a hospital," Natasha said, appearing at Sofia's side. Her voice signaled barely controlled anger.

"Not until we finish this," Sofia replied, testing her weight on the injured leg. It held, barely. "Where's Ricci headed?"

"The Arsenale. Our surveillance confirmed he's gathering his remaining forces there." Natasha's expression hardened. "The team tracking him reports eight armed operatives minimum, setting up defensive positions. They're expecting me to walk into their trap."

Sofia nodded, viewing the maps spread across the tactical table. "Instead, we're bringing the fight to them."

"We aren't doing anything," Natasha corrected sharply. "You've done enough. My team will handle the operation from here."

Sofia met her former partner's gaze, unflinching. "I'm going."

"Absolutely not." Natasha's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You're a civilian with a gunshot wound who's nearly drowned twice in the past twenty-four hours. You're staying here."

"He has Julian's blood on his hands," Sofia said quietly. "And Marco's. And countless others across decades."

Something registered in Natasha's eyes—a moment of understanding. "Observational only," she conceded. "You stay back with the secondary team. If you compromise this operation in any way—"

"I won't." Sofia struggled to her feet, ignoring the fire that shot through her leg.

Natasha's only response was a curt nod before she turned to brief the assembled tactical team—twenty operators in full gear, their faces set with purpose. Sofia limped toward the perimeter, where she could observe the approach to the complex. The massive brick walls that had once protected Venice's shipbuilding secrets now sheltered a different kind of predator.

Within minutes, the team was moving out, melting into the early morning shadows. Sofia followed with the secondary team, maintaining the prescribed distance. Natasha shot her one final warning glance before vanishing around a corner with the vanguard.

The Arsenale loomed before them, imposing. Sofia positioned herself behind a low wall with the secondary team, their radio channels alive with tactical chatter as Natasha's primary force moved into position.

"Alpha team in position," crackled over the comms. "No movement at the east entrance."

"Bravo confirming west approach clear," another voice responded.

Sofia watched through borrowed binoculars, her heart hammering against her ribs. The military complex now seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the coming violence.

The first shots shattered the dawn—cracks that echoed across the water. Muzzle flashes lit windows on the second floor of the main building as Ricci's men opened fire on the approaching Interpol team. The agents returned fire with disciplined shots, taking cover behind pillars and stonework.

"Contact front!" a voice shouted over the comm. "Multiple hostiles, second floor windows!"

Sofia's secondary team were alert around her, weapons ready as they maintained their position. The gunfire intensified, bullets chipping away at stone and ricocheting with metallic whines. Through her binoculars, Sofia watched Natasha direct her team with hand signals.

As the firefight raged, Sofia's mind raced through the evidence they'd uncovered—Farnese's documents, the Leonessa family tree, Operation Laguna's decades of criminal enterprise. All of it leading to this violent conclusion. Generations of secrets and blood, finally exposed.

"Let this end here," she whispered to herself, adjusting to better observe the battle. "Let this finally end."

Movement caught her eye—not at the windows where the gunfire originated but higher. Sofia adjusted her binoculars, focusing on the roofline. A solitary figure moved with stealth across the tiles, staying low and using the stonework for cover.

The silhouette was unmistakable—Detective Ricci, getting into position while his men provided covering fire below. He carried what appeared to be a rifle case as he established a sniper's perch overlooking the courtyard where Natasha was coordinating the assault.

"There's someone on the roof," Sofia reported urgently to the agent beside her.

The young man didn’t glance up from his radio. "Command is aware of multiple hostiles throughout the structure."

"No," Sofia insisted, pointing. "Look—it's Ricci himself. He's setting up a sniper location above the east courtyard."

The agent squinted, then shook his head. "I don't see anyone. Stay down, Ms. Costa."

Sofia looked again through the binoculars. Ricci had disappeared behind a chimney, but she'd seen him clearly enough.

"That's Ricci!" Sofia grabbed the agent's radio. "He's angling for a kill shot on Natasha!"

"Give that back!" The agent snatched his radio away. "You need to stay put."

Sofia turned to the team leader. "Lieutenant, Detective Ricci is in a sniper position. He's going to take out your commander if we don't move now."

The lieutenant frowned, raising his own binoculars. "I don't see—"

"Because he's an assassin trained since childhood to remain unseen!" Sofia's patience snapped. "Radio Natasha. Now."

The lieutenant hesitated, then keyed his comm. "Command, possible sniper on the east roofline. Request confirmation."

Static answered him. Then: "Command engaged. Stand by."

"She's in the middle of a firefight," the lieutenant explained. "We need to wait for—"

"She'll be dead if we wait." Sofia ran, ignoring the protest from her wounded leg.

"Stop her!" the lieutenant ordered.

Two agents intercepted Sofia, gripping her arms. "Ma'am, you can't—"

"Look!" Sofia wrenched free, pointing frantically at the roof where Ricci had reappeared, assembling what was clearly a high-powered rifle. "He's right there! Natasha is walking into a kill zone!"

The agents exchanged uncertain glances. The lieutenant raised his binoculars again, then cursed. "I see movement, but..." He tried his radio once more. "Command, urgent: Confirm sniper on east roof. Command?"

Only static and gunfire answered.

"Damn it," Sofia hissed. She turned to the lieutenant. "If he gets that shot off, your commander dies. Is that what you want?"

The lieutenant's face struggled with indecision. "We have orders to hold this position."

"Then I'll go myself." Sofia turned, already figuring the fastest route to the east wall.

"Costa, don't!" The agent grabbed for her arm, but Sofia twisted away.

"Radio it in again!" she shouted over her shoulder, limping rapidly toward the walls.

"Shit!" Sofia heard the lieutenant curse behind her, followed by radio chatter as they tried again to reach Natasha.

Pain lanced through Sofia's leg with each step, but adrenaline pushed her forward. The wound had reopened, warm blood soaking through the borrowed tactical pants. She gritted her teeth against the agony, focusing on the stonework that would give her access to the lower roofline.

The gunfire inside the Arsenale increased—Natasha's team pushing deeper into the complex, unaware of the deadly threat above them. Sofia reached the wall, her fingers grasping gaps between stones. The climb would be challenging for someone uninjured. For her, with a bullet wound in her thigh, it seemed nearly impossible.

But Julian's face surfaced in her mind—pale against hospital sheets, fighting for life because she'd failed to see the threat in time. She wouldn't fail again.

Sofia dragged herself upward, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her leg. Blood smeared the stones beneath her, marking her painful progress. Sweat poured down her face, mingling with tears of exertion as she forced her body beyond its limits.

Halfway up, her injured leg gave out completely. She dangled precariously, fingers cramping. Below, the secondary team had finally mobilized, spreading out to find a better vantage point on the rooftop threat.

Too slow. They'd be too slow.

Sofia pulled herself up with shaking arms, abandoning any attempt to use her wounded leg. Pure will drove her upward, inch by excruciating inch, until finally she grasped the lower roof edge.

With a final, desperate heave, she rolled onto the sloping tiles, gasping as pain threatened to black out her vision. For several heartbeats, she could only lie there, struggling to remain conscious as blood pooled beneath her leg.

Through the haze of pain, Sofia oriented herself. The gunfire continued inside the building—sporadic now, suggesting Natasha's team was gaining ground. But above, on the higher roofline where the east and west wings joined, Detective Ricci had completed his setup. Sofia could see him adjusting his scope, his movements unhurried.

She needed a weapon. Her hands patted the vest she'd been given, finding only basic equipment—radio, flashlight, first aid kit. No sidearm. They hadn't trusted her with one.

Sofia dragged herself across the tiles, leaving a crimson trail behind her. Twenty meters separated her from the junction where she could access the higher roof. Twenty meters that might as well have been twenty miles.

Below, the courtyard bustled with activity—Interpol agents securing the main entrance, establishing a perimeter. And there was Natasha, emerging to coordinate the final push, completely exposed in the open courtyard.

Ricci's rifle barrel tracked her movement.

"Natasha!" Sofia screamed, her voice lost in the chaos below. "Above you!"

She lunged forward, dragging her useless leg behind her, desperate to reach the higher roof before Ricci could take his shot. The stonework offered minimal handholds as she pulled herself upward, blood-slick fingers slipping.

Ricci turned at the sound of her approach, his expression changing from concentration to cold amusement. He abandoned his rifle momentarily, rising to face her.

"Ms. Costa," he greeted, as casually as if they'd met at a café. "You're too late," he remarked. "As always."

"Your daughter said the same thing," Sofia managed through gritted teeth. "Before I put her in handcuffs."

Something sparked in Ricci's eyes—a crack in his composure. "Gabriella is resourceful. She'll be free before nightfall."

"Not this time." Sofia hauled herself another few inches forward. "It's over, Ricci. The Leonessa family's centuries of blood end today."

He smiled—the same professional, reassuring smile he'd shown when interviewing her about Bellanti's murder. The smile of a public servant, concealing generations of violence.

"Nothing ends today," he replied, glancing back toward his rifle. "Except perhaps Natasha Kovic's promising career."

Sofia lunged forward with desperate strength, clawing at his ankle. Ricci stepped aside, as if avoiding a puddle rather than an opponent. His foot connected with her injured thigh, grinding deliberately into the bullet wound.

White-hot pain exploded through Sofia's body. She bit back a scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"I would have preferred to deal with you more... thoroughly," Ricci said, returning to his rifle. "Like we did with Professor Bellanti. But priorities must be maintained."

He settled behind the scope again, adjusting his position. Below, Natasha remained in the courtyard, directing her team as they secured the complex.

Sofia's hand closed around a loose roof tile. With the last reserves of her strength, she hurled it at Ricci's head. He ducked, the projectile missing him by centimeters, but the toss disrupted his aim.

"Irritating to the end," he muttered, turning back toward her with hatred in his eyes.

He approached deliberately. From inside his immaculate suit jacket, he withdrew a slender knife—the twin of the one Gabriella had carried.

"I had hoped to watch you die slowly," he said. "To extract every detail of what you've learned about our operation. But circumstances dictate immediacy over satisfaction."

Sofia dragged herself backward, leaving smears of blood. Her back hit the wall—nowhere left to retreat.

"They know everything," she gasped, buying seconds with words. "The Leonessa family, Operation Laguna, the Hidden Lion. All of it."

"They suspect," Ricci corrected, advancing. "Without me, without the evidence only I can provide, they have theories at best."

Below, Sofia could hear shouting—perhaps the secondary team had finally spotted them on the roof. But they'd be too late. Ricci would finish her, then complete his mission. Unless...

The knife glinted as he stepped closer, his movements almost ritualistic. Like a predator savoring the moments before the kill.

"Three deaths," Sofia whispered, her mind suddenly clear. "Bellanti was yours. But before him—Farnese in 1995. You were younger then. Still learning the family trade."

Ricci's eyes flashed with surprise that she would waste her final moments on history.

"And the banker," Sofia continued. "Giuseppe Visconti, 1987. Your first kill. Your initiation into the role of Leon."

Ricci froze, the knife hovering. "How could you possibly—"

"The dates in the mausoleum," Sofia pressed, seeing his momentary uncertainty. "The gap between your father's first recorded mission and your appearance. You were seventeen when you killed Visconti. Barely more than a child yourself."

Time. Stalling. She could hear them. Could he? One of the skills of a forensic linguist was attunement to sound. No matter how small. An advantage. She had a tactical advantage. She could hear the secondary team scaling after her. Could he?

The faint breath. The scuff of a shoe. A falling shingle.

No. He didn’t hear them. Not yet.

Stall. Just stall, she thought to herself.

"Eighteen," Ricci corrected automatically, then seemed to regret the admission. His face hardened. "What does it matter now?"

Sofia laughed—a harsh, pained sound. "It matters because I just got you to confirm a murder on an open Interpol channel."

Ricci's eyes widened as he saw the small transmitter pinned to Sofia's borrowed vest—the standard-issue communication device that had been recording every word.

Before he could react, the rooftop erupted with movement. Agents from the secondary team appeared at multiple access points, weapons trained on Ricci.

"Detective Ricci," an authoritative voice called. "Drop the weapon and step away from her."

Ricci's face betrayed nothing as he assessed his options. The knife remained in his hand, close enough to end Sofia's life before they could reach him.

"Your daughter confessed everything," Sofia said quietly, for his ears alone. "The Leonessa legacy dies with you two."

Ricci's eyes showed a flicker of ancestral pride. "She would never betray the family."

"She already has," Sofia lied. "Full immunity in exchange for family secrets."

Ricci's composure cracked at last—genuine rage distorting his features. The knife lifted, his body preparing to strike.

Three shots rang out simultaneously. Ricci staggered backward, red marring his white shirt. The knife clattered against the tiles as he dropped to his knees, his expression one of almost comical surprise.

"You..." he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips as he stared at Sofia. "You were... supposed to die... in that factory."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sofia replied, watching the light leave his eyes.

Ricci toppled sideways, his body sliding down the sloped roof until it caught against a gargoyle. For a moment, he seemed to stare at the rising sun with empty eyes, his features relaxed in death. The last Leon of the Leonessa bloodline had fallen, centuries of secrets dying with him.

Agents swarmed the rooftop, securing the scene. Hands lifted Sofia gently, voices talking about medical evacuation and blood loss. The world tilted and swayed around her as the adrenaline that had sustained her ebbed away.

"Costa." Natasha's voice cut through the haze. She appeared above Sofia, her expression unreadable. "That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever witnessed."

Sofia tried to smile, though she suspected it was more of a grimace. "Why choose? It can be both."

Respect flickered for a moment in Natasha's eyes. "You're bleeding out. Again. Try not to die before the helicopter arrives."

"Julian?" Sofia managed, as medics worked to stabilize her leg.

"Conscious. Asking for you." Natasha replied. "Apparently neither of you knows when to stay down."

Relief washed through Sofia, more powerful than any painkiller they might administer. Julian was alive. The evidence was found. The Hidden Lion had finally been exposed.

"The Contarini mausoleum," she managed, fighting to remain conscious as they transported her onto a stretcher. "The family records—they prove everything."

"Already secured," Natasha confirmed. "A team was dispatched the moment we had your location. The genealogies, the portraits, everything."

The sky above blurred as they carried Sofia across the rooftop. The morning sun painted the lagoon in shimmering gold, the city's spires and domes rising like a Renaissance painting coming to life. In the distance, the last fireworks of Carnevale smoked, the celebration surrendering to daylight.

"It's over," Sofia whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. "It's finally over."

As consciousness slipped away, Sofia thought she saw a smile briefly touch Natasha's lips.

"Yes," the Interpol agent agreed, her voice following Sofia into darkness. "This time, it really is."

Epilogue

Three Months Later

The café terrace overlooked Campo Santo Stefano, its tables filled with tourists enjoying the June sunshine. Sofia sat alone, a cappuccino cooling before her as she watched the square. Her cane leaned against the table—a temporary necessity according to her doctors, though she suspected they were overly optimistic about her recovery timeline.

She turned the page of her newspaper, scanning the headline with satisfaction: "HIDDEN LION CONSPIRACY EXPOSED: CENTURIES OF CORRUPTION UNVEILED." The sub-headline detailed the arrests of prominent Venetian officials, including the Minister of Cultural Heritage. Alessio Valente had already pleaded guilty to multiple charges, his testimony implicating a network that reached across Europe.

"Is this seat taken?"

Sofia looked up, her heart skipping as Julian stood in front of her. He moved more stiffly than he used to, his left arm held closer to his body—evidence of the damage Leon's bullet had done. But his eyes still crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the same warmth she remembered.

"I saved it for you," she answered, waving to the empty chair.

Julian settled across from her, wincing as he adjusted his position. "The doctors said I'd find you here, ignoring their advice about rest."

"Pot, kettle," Sofia countered, nodding toward his still-healing chest. "You're supposed to be in physical therapy, not wandering Venice."

"I finished early." His eyes traveled to her cane. "How's the leg?"

"Functional." She shrugged. "It complains when it rains, which in Venice means it complains constantly."

A comfortable silence settled between them as the waiter brought Julian an espresso. They sipped their coffees, watching the square where children chased pigeons and artists sketched the basilica.

"I received my medical leave extension yesterday," Julian said. "Another month before they'll even consider clearing me for field work."

Sofia nodded. "Same. Natasha called it 'mandatory recovery time,' but I think she's just tired of my paperwork."

Julian traced the rim of his cup with one finger, his eyes meeting hers with sudden intensity. "Do you have a week?"

"A week?"

"There's a place in the Dolomites," he continued, a hint of uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice. "A small village above Cortina. Clean air, mountain trails. No assassins or conspiracies, as far as I know." His lips quirked in a half-smile. "Just us. If you want."

Sofia studied him, seeing beyond the casual invitation to the question beneath it. After everything they'd survived together, after bullets and betrayal and the cold waters of the lagoon, this simple offer felt more significant than any mission briefing.

"Just us," she repeated softly.

"Just us," Julian confirmed.

Sofia reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his. "When do we leave?"

The tightness in Julian's shoulders eased visibly. "Tomorrow morning? I have a car arranged."

"I'll pack light," she promised, her hand remaining against his.

Around them, tourists photographed ancient splendor, locals navigated the familiar floating city. But for Sofia, the world had narrowed to this single moment, this simple connection that promised something beyond the pain they'd both inhabited for so long. "One condition."

Julian's eyebrow twitched up. "Name it."

"No phones, no laptops, no case files." Sofia leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "For one week, the world's mysteries can solve themselves."

A smile spread across Julian's face—not the tactical one that had unnerved criminals across continents, but something more genuine. "Deal."

The waiter approached with the bill. Julian reached for it, but Sofia was faster.

"My treat," she insisted. "Consider it payment for all those times you saved my life in the past month."

"I believe we're even on that count," Julian replied, but he didn't argue further.

They left the café together, Julian adjusting his pace to match Sofia's slower, cane-assisted gait. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campo, gilding the stones with warm light. Tourists streamed past them, guidebooks and cameras in hand, oblivious to the two figures who had unraveled centuries of secrets beneath this same sky.

As they crossed a footbridge spanning a narrow canal, Sofia paused, her attention caught by a carnival mask shop. In the window display, a porcelain lion face gleamed white against black velvet—similar to the one Gabriella had worn, though lacking the craftsmanship of the original.

Julian followed her gaze, his hand finding the small of her back. "She's still not talking," he said quietly.

"No," Sofia confirmed. "Interpol's holding her in isolation, but she hasn't revealed a single name from the Hidden Lion's network."

"Some secrets die hard."

"But they do die," Sofia replied, turning away from the mask. "Natasha's team found financial records in Ricci's private vault. They've already frozen accounts in Singapore, Zurich, and the Caymans."

They continued walking, passing a group of children playing an impromptu game of football against a wall bearing a fresco of St. Mark. The normalcy of the scene struck Sofia suddenly—how quickly the extraordinary could become mundane again, how resilient the rhythms of ordinary life.

"Do you ever wonder," Julian asked, breaking the companionable silence as they navigated a calle, "what we'll do when this is over? When we're both fully recovered?"

Sofia glanced at him, hearing the vulnerability in the question. "You mean, do I wonder if there's life after Interpol?"

"Something like that."

She considered this as they emerged into a small square where an elderly man played melancholy notes on an accordion. The music drifted around them, sweet and sad.

"I used to think this was all there was," Sofia admitted. "The chase. The truth. The next case." She paused, watching sunlight dapple through laundry strung between buildings. "Now I'm not so sure."

Julian's hand found hers, fingers intertwining with natural ease. "Maybe there's something to be said for mountains instead of missions. For a while, at least."

Sofia squeezed his hand. "The Dolomites sound perfect."

Julian's eyes brightened with inspiration. "Actually, I've been thinking..."

"Having second thoughts already?" Sofia teased.

"Not about us," he clarified quickly. "But the location. What about Petra, Jordan, instead? The rose-red city, ancient temples carved into mountains. Sunrise there is supposedly life-changing."

Sofia's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Quite the pivot from alpine meadows."

"Too ambitious for two people with canes?" His eyes crinkled with self-deprecating humor.

"Please. I climbed a Venetian arsenal with a bullet in my leg." She tapped her cane against the cobblestones. "This is merely decorative at this point."

"Petra it is, then."

"Or," Sofia countered, warming to the game, "Kyoto during cherry blossom season. The temples, the gardens, the food..."

Julian nodded appreciatively. "Good choice. Though I'd offer Cappadocia—hot-air balloons over those otherworldly rock formations at dawn."

"The northern lights in Iceland," Sofia suggested. "Glass igloo, midnight sky on fire."

"The temples of Bagan at sunrise."

"The salt flats in Bolivia when they mirror the sky."

They both laughed. For the first time in months—perhaps years—Sofia felt lightness expanding in her chest, possibilities unfurling like maps of places they might go, lives they might lead.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She almost ignored it, but old habits died hard. She glanced at the screen, expecting Natasha with some bureaucratic follow-up.

Instead, Nuno's name appeared above a message that made her breath catch:

*Found something on Valezzi. I think I may know who it is.*

Sofia stared at the text, the laughter dying in her throat. Her hand trembled as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"What is it?" Julian asked, instantly alert to the change in her demeanor.

Sofia hesitated, her mind already racing through the implications. Valezzi, the name connected to her parents’ deaths. The final name on her father’s lips. The missing piece.

She looked at Julian, at the hard-won peace in his eyes, the future they'd just been imagining together. The mountains or the desert or wherever they chose. Just them.

"It can wait," she said, her voice calm despite the urgency pulsing through her. "Not long. But it can wait a few more minutes."

Julian studied her face, reading what she wasn't saying.

But he just nodded, and the two of them strolled along the waterways of a sinking city, neither of them looking more than a few steps ahead.