Haunting Lockets.

The alley reeked of wet pavement and bad decisions.

Dim streetlights flickered, casting distorted shadows against the grimy brick walls. Mira moved ahead of me, her stride sharp and deliberate, boots slicing through shallow puddles. Even from a distance, I could feel the pulse of adrenaline still thrumming through her—coiled, electric, ready for a fight that hadn't ended yet.

Then I heard footsteps.

They shifted in a hurry.

Predators mistaking her for prey.

"Leaving so soon?" a voice called through the mist.

I stopped, just outside the alley's mouth, watching as Mira turned slowly and unbothered.

Five men emerged from the shadows. They were built like they'd spent their lives throwing cheap punches and calling it skill.

With a slight tilt of her head, she smiled, "You're in my way."

One of them snorted, flipping a knife between his fingers. "You've got a mouth on you. Let's see if it runs as fast as your feet."

Mira didn't respond.

She shrugged off her jacket, "Okay," rolling her shoulders as she sized them up, "Let's get this over and done with."

The shift was subtle but unmistakable—she wasn't afraid. 

The first idiot lunged.

I didn't move. Not yet.

Mira moved like a ghost, side-stepping the blade with ease, her elbow slamming into his jaw. The crack was audible even over the rain.

She kicked him back without missing a beat, sending him sprawling.

Another came at her—she pivoted, using his own weight to flip him into the wall.

Damn.

Even I had to appreciate the precision.

But five against one is still five against one.

A third man caught her arm, twisting hard enough to throw her off balance. A punch landed, solid against her ribs, and I saw the brief flicker of pain before she gritted her teeth and drove her knee up, a vicious counter that left him wheezing.

That was my cue.

I stepped forward, out of the dark, and let my fist introduce itself to the nearest bastard's skull.

He dropped instantly.

"You'd think thugs would learn to pick better fights," I said, dodging a wild swing. My knuckles cracked against bone in response, and another body hit the pavement.

The last one turned to run. I caught him by the collar, slamming him against the wall with little effort, "Useless."

"You don't belong here," I said, bored. One heavy punch, and he crumpled.

The alley was quiet again, aside from the rain and the occasional groan from the losers on the ground. I turned to Mira. She wiped blood from her lip, her expression blank.

"You have a habit of making enemies," I noted.

She huffed, "And you have a habit of showing up where you're not wanted."

I stepped closer, letting the corner of my mouth curl. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I didn't need your help."

"Sure," I drawled, amused. "Because you were doing such a great job back there."

Her jaw clenched. She grabbed her jacket off the ground, jerking it back on like she wanted to punch me instead.

Then something caught my eye.

A glint against her skin, just beneath the collar of her shirt. The shape—faint etching—

My smirk faded.

"That's—"

Her hand snapped up, covering the locket before I could get a better look.

"Stay out of my business," she warned.

But I had already seen enough.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides. My stomach twisted, memories crashing against me like a storm.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, my voice lower, colder.

Mira hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

"Walk away, Luca." Her tone was quiet, almost dangerous. "If you know what's good for you."

She turned, ready to disappear into the night, but I caught her arm. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.

"You can't just—"

"Let go."

There was something in her gaze, something unreadable yet sharp enough to make me listen. I released her.

"That's the thanks I get for saving your ass?" I called after her as she walked away, boots pounding against the wet pavement.

She didn't look back.

I stood there, letting the rain seep through my coat, my thoughts spiraling in ways I didn't like.

That locket.

It was impossible.

Yet the harder I tried to shake it off, the more it sank its teeth into me.

I exhaled sharply, raking a hand through my hair as I looked at the unconscious bodies in the alley.

Then I laughed—

"Of course, she'd just walk away," I muttered, stepping over one of the groaning idiots.

But the question still gnawed at me.

Was it really her?

***

I stormed into the mansion, slamming the heavy door behind me. The sound echoed through the grand hall, rattling the stillness of the late evening.

My mind was a battlefield, thoughts crashing into each other without resolution.

The locket.

Her face. Her voice. Everything about tonight left me angry—at her, at myself, at the whole damn situation.

Shrugging off my jacket, I tossed it onto the nearest chair and made a straight line for the bar. I poured myself a generous glass of whiskey and flung it down. The burn did little to take the edge off the storm raging inside me.

My grip tightened around the glass as her face flashed through my mind again—the bright blue oceanic eyes, you'd get lost in them if you stared at them too much.

"Damn it," I muttered, slamming the glass onto the counter.

The soft sound of heels clicking against the marble floors shattered my trail of thoughts, Vivienne.

"You're home," she said smoothly. She leaned against the doorway now, her perfectly styled hair framing sharp features, lips painted the color of sin.

I said nothing. I poured myself another glass instead. I had no patience for her tonight.

"You look tense," she purred, crossing the room slowly. Her gaze locked onto me, predatory, as if she could sense the weakness underneath my anger.

"Don't start," I warned, not sparing her a glance.

"Oh, come on, Luca," she teased, brushing her fingers along my arm. "You can talk to me. Or better yet, not talk at all." Her hand slid up to my shoulder, then down the front of my shirt, fingers toying with the buttons.

I finally looked at her, unamused. "I'm not in the mood, Vivienne."

"You're never in the mood," she shot back, stepping closer. Her fingers curled into my shirt, tugging me toward her. "Maybe that's the problem. You need to relax, and let off some steam. God knows you've got enough of it bottled up in that pretty head of yours."

I let out a humorless chuckle. "Steam isn't what's bottled up, trust me."

"Then let me help," she whispered, her body closing in until her lips brushed mine. "I could make you forget all about whatever's eating at you."

I caught her wrist, my grip firm, "Vivienne." I said in a hushed voice as a warning.

She didn't back down. Instead, she sneered, her lips curling with amusement. "What's wrong? That little mystifying vixen at the club got to you? You must be joking. She's probably just another career-oriented girl playing with fire. Why bother your head with her when I am right here?"

I laughed then, "You're jealous. That's cute."

Her smirk faltered, but she recovered quickly. "Jealous? No. But I don't like seeing you chase shadows when you've got someone solid right in front of you."

"Solid?" I released her wrist, an eyebrow rising. "You're more like quicksand. The harder I try to avoid you, the deeper I sink into this ridiculous game you keep playing."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And yet, here you are," I said, dodging past her to the window overlooking the city. I stood for a moment, looking out, my gaze distant. "I need information, Vivienne. About the family that used to live in Willowridge Cottage, 42 Maple Grove, Everstead, PA 19012. I want to know everything—who they were, where they went, who they pissed off enough to vanish into thin air."

Vivienne crossed her arms, the playful edge to her voice gone. "You think this is about your past? About her?"

"Don't pretend to understand what's going on in my head," I snapped, rounding on her. My face relaxed somewhat with a sigh, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Maybe it wasn't the locket. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't sound like it doesn't matter," Vivienne said, raising an eyebrow.

I said nothing, my mind spiraling. Could it really be her? Could the sweet, innocent girl I once knew have turned into this ghost of a person? No. Impossible. Mira was gone. She had to be.

I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. "Wherever Mira is, if she's even alive, I'll find her. That's a promise."

Vivienne watched me silently for a moment. Finally, she huffed and turned to leave. "Fine. I'll dig into it. But don't come crying to me when this little obsession of yours blows up in your face."

As the sound of her heels faded, I poured myself another drink, staring into the amber liquid. My reflection stared back at me, fractured and distorted.

"You've really lost it," I muttered to myself. I took a long sip, my jaw tightening as I stared out at the city lights. Wherever Mira was—whether she was the girl at the club or someone else entirely—I was going to get answers. And if it was her…

My grip on the glass tightened.

If it was her, she had a lot to answer for.