The Big Story

Evelyn's Point of View

The morning was deceptively calm. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in my blinds, painting golden stripes across the cluttered surface of my desk. Coffee cups—half-empty—sat abandoned among a chaotic sea of notes and articles I'd been dissecting for weeks. My laptop screen glowed faintly, the cursor blinking on a blank document. No words came, not yet.

My phone buzzed, rattling the wooden desk. The name on the screen made my stomach tighten: Michael Gray. My editor. It wasn't like him to call this early. I let it ring once more before swiping to answer.

"Morning, Michael," I said, trying to sound more awake than I felt.

"Evelyn, we need to talk. Now," he said, his tone brisk, almost clipped. I could hear the faint hum of background noise—voices, typing, the unmistakable chaos of The Herald's newsroom.

"Talk about what?" I asked, standing and stretching as I walked to the window. The city below was still waking up, the streets quiet but alive with promise.

"A story," he said. "One that's bigger than anything you've handled before."

I leaned against the windowsill, a flicker of excitement cutting through my grogginess. "I'm listening."

"There's a man," he began, his voice lowering. "They call him Hades."

The name sent a strange shiver down my spine. "Hades? That's… dramatic."

"It's what he's known by in Sicily," Michael said. "A shadowy figure operating in the kind of circles where power, wealth, and crime intersect. No one knows his real identity. All we have are whispers, rumors about his… methods."

"Methods?" I pressed, my curiosity mounting.

Michael hesitated, something rare for him. "Let's just say he's made an art out of punishment. They say he follows a personal code—a set of rules that would make Dante himself blush."

I let the words sink in, my fingers tightening around the phone. This wasn't just a story—it was a descent into something dark, something that could either make or break my career.

"What's the angle?" I asked, trying to sound steady, though my heart was racing.

"Uncover him," Michael said simply. "Expose who he is, what he does, and why. But be warned, Evelyn—this isn't like your usual investigative pieces. These are dangerous waters, and you won't be the only one swimming in them."

I turned away from the window, my reflection in the glass staring back at me, both thrilled and apprehensive. "When do I leave?"

"There's a ticket waiting for you at JFK," Michael said. "Your flight departs in six hours. You'll land in Palermo. The rest… you'll have to figure out when you get there."

"And my cover?"

"You're writing a feature on Sicilian art and culture," he replied. "Use that as your entry point. But tread carefully, Evelyn. People who get too close to Hades tend to disappear."

A thrill of unease crept up my spine. "Noted," I said.

"Good luck," Michael said, and then the line went dead.

I spent the next few hours packing and mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead. My editor's warnings echoed in my mind, but I pushed them aside, focusing instead on the opportunity. This was the kind of story that could cement my reputation. All I had to do was survive it.

The airport was its usual chaotic mess. As I navigated the crowds, clutching my boarding pass, the name "Hades" swirled in my thoughts. Who was he? Why was he shrouded in such secrecy? And what kind of man earned a name synonymous with the god of the underworld?

The flight was uneventful, though my mind raced the entire time. By the time we touched down in Palermo, the late afternoon sun bathed the city in warm hues, casting long shadows over the historic architecture. The air smelled of salt and citrus, a mix of the sea and the lush groves dotting the landscape.

I hailed a cab, clutching the address of the small hotel Michael had booked for me. The city passed by in a blur of cobblestone streets, vibrant markets, and weathered facades. But beneath its charm, I couldn't shake the feeling that something darker pulsed beneath the surface.

The hotel was modest but comfortable, nestled in a quiet corner of the city. I checked in, my Italian rusty but passable, and headed up to my room. The moment I stepped inside, I locked the door behind me, a habit I'd developed long ago on assignments like this.

As I unpacked, my phone buzzed again. A text message.

I frowned, unlocking the screen. The message was from an unknown number:

"Leave now, before you find what you're looking for."

My blood ran cold. I scanned the room instinctively, my eyes darting to the window, the corners, the shadows. Was someone watching me?

A second text came through: "Hades sees everything."

My hands trembled slightly as I set the phone down. The message was clear: I was being warned. But by who? And why?

Despite the fear creeping into my chest, I felt a surge of determination. Whatever this was, I wasn't going to back down.

I stepped to the window, looking out over the city below. The streets glowed faintly in the dying light, alive with possibilities. Somewhere out there, the man they called Hades was waiting. And I was going to find him.

Little did I know, he might already be closer than I imagined.

The evening air in Palermo was cooler than I expected. A soft breeze slipped through the open window of my hotel room, carrying the faint scent of the sea and something else—something sharp and metallic that clung to the back of my throat. I couldn't shake the texts from my mind.

Who had sent them? A warning, a threat, or both? My instincts told me one thing for certain: someone knew why I was here, and they weren't happy about it.

I moved to my desk, booting up my laptop. The glow from the screen lit the dim room as I opened a blank document. If this was going to be my story, I needed to start gathering every shred of information I could.

First, I typed the name: Hades.

The cursor blinked, waiting for me to turn a single word into something tangible.

I pulled up every article, report, and rumor I could find. They painted a fragmented picture, but one that was disturbingly consistent. Hades was a name that inspired fear and reverence in equal measure. He operated in the shadows, a ghost who punished those who crossed him with ruthless precision.

Victims ranged from rival criminals to wealthy insiders who betrayed their alliances. The methods varied, but the message was always the same: disobedience came at a price, one that mimicked the punishments of sinners in hell.

One man, a financier, had been found dangling from the edge of a cliff, his body burned and broken as if he'd fallen through fire itself. Another victim had been locked in a chamber and left to starve, eerily mirroring Dante's descriptions of the infernal circles.

A chill settled over me as I scrolled through crime scene photos leaked by Sicilian reporters. They weren't just brutal—they were theatrical, deliberate.

I leaned back, trying to process it all. The image of a man orchestrating these punishments was monstrous. But there was no face to put to the name. No trace of Hades beyond the horror he left behind.

Then, I stumbled upon a single thread of information that made my breath catch: Gideon Giovanni.

The name was mentioned in a vague online forum post, an unconfirmed link. According to the post, Gideon was a prominent businessman in Sicily, running various enterprises. His public persona was clean—charitable donations, respectable connections, and no criminal record. But the post hinted at a darker side, one tied to the Giovanni family's long history with the mafia.

I stared at the name on the screen, feeling the pieces shift into place. Was Gideon Giovanni Hades? Or was he just another pawn in the underworld's hierarchy?

Before I could dig further, a sharp knock at the door startled me. My heart leapt into my throat, and I froze, listening.

Another knock, louder this time. "Miss Monroe?"

I hesitated, my pulse pounding in my ears. How did they know my name?

"Yes?" I called, trying to steady my voice.

"This is your front desk," a man replied in accented English. "We have a delivery for you."

A delivery? My chest tightened as I approached the door. Looking through the peephole, I saw a man in a crisp uniform holding a small package.

I unlocked the door cautiously, leaving the chain in place as I opened it a crack. The man smiled politely and handed the package through the gap. "This came for you, signorina."

"Who sent it?" I asked.

He shrugged. "There was no name, only this address. Have a good evening."

I shut the door and stared at the package, my hands trembling slightly. It was small, wrapped in plain brown paper with no markings. I placed it on the desk, debating whether to open it or call someone—though I wasn't sure who.

Curiosity won. Slowly, I tore the paper away, revealing a simple black box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a key.

No note. No explanation. Just a cold, metal key with an engraving on the handle: L'Ombra.

The name sparked recognition. L'Ombra was a bar Michael had mentioned before I left—an entry point, he'd called it, where the right questions might lead to the wrong kind of answers.

I stared at the key, a knot forming in my stomach. This wasn't just a delivery. It was an invitation.

My phone buzzed again, and I nearly jumped. Another text from the unknown number:

"You should be careful whose doors you unlock, Miss Monroe. Some lead straight to hell."

The words burned into my brain as I sat frozen, the key cold in my hand.

Somewhere out there, Hades—or whoever was pulling these strings—was watching. And they wanted me to know it.

I clenched the key tighter, my fear mixing with a surge of defiance. If they thought they could scare me off, they were wrong.

But as I looked out the window at the city, cloaked in shadow and whispers, I couldn't ignore the voice in the back of my mind.

What if this time, I wasn't the one in control?