Chapter Six: The Pursuit of Ghosts

The warning still lingered in the air like a ghost. Stop digging. That voice, shrouded in mystery, had come as a direct message, a whisper from the void, but Theo wasn't one to be intimidated. If anything, it made him more determined.

He sat at his desk, fingers dancing across the keyboard with a manic precision, eyes locked onto the screen like a predator tracking its prey.

"Give up for the night, Theo," Marco muttered from across the room, rubbing the exhaustion from his face. "We've already stirred something dangerous."

Theo scoffed. "You think I'll stop now? No. No way. That voice—whoever it was—wants us to be afraid. And if they're afraid of us finding something, it means we're close."

Vincenzo sat in the shadows, silent but watching. He'd seen men obsessed before. Some were consumed by revenge, others by power. Theo's was something different—something sharp, relentless, like a blade that refused to dull.

The search continued. Every path was a dead end, every code broken led to another wall. But Theo adapted. He changed his approach. Different encryption methods, deeper layers of the digital underground. The room became thick with tension, the only sounds the furious clicking of keys and the occasional exhale of frustration.

Then, suddenly—

A flicker.

A shift in the data.

Theo's hands froze mid-type.

"Wait." His voice was barely above a whisper. Marco and Vincenzo leaned in. The screen displayed a trace—something alive, moving in real time.

"He's real," Theo murmured. "I've found him."

The room fell into silence.

The Man wasn't a ghost anymore.

---

The next morning, the estate was quiet. The night's revelations still lingered, but there was little time to process them.

Because they came.

A fleet of black sedans rolled up the long driveway, engines purring like well-fed beasts. Four men stepped out, their movements sharp and deliberate. Dark suits, cold expressions. Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna.

Marco was the first to spot them. He straightened from his seat near the balcony, alert. "We have company."

Vincenzo was already expecting them. He adjusted his cufflinks as he walked down the grand staircase, his expression unreadable. By the time the agents were ushered into the study, he was seated behind the polished oak desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world.

The lead agent, a middle-aged man with calculating eyes, spoke first. "Vincenzo Moretti."

A pause.

Vincenzo offered a slow, deliberate nod. "I assume you're not here for pleasantries."

The agent smiled, but it was the kind of smile that held no warmth. "We've been tracking unusual activity. Someone has been looking for a ghost. And when people start looking for things that should remain buried, we take notice."

Theo, standing a few feet away, remained motionless, his face impassive. Marco was tense, ready to act.

Vincenzo leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "So, you came all this way because of a hunch? That seems… inefficient."

The agent's smile didn't falter. "We don't deal in hunches, Mr. Moretti. We deal in certainties. We know someone from this estate was searching for classified information."

Vincenzo's gaze was unwavering. "Then show me your proof."

Silence.

The agent's fingers twitched at his side, the only sign of discomfort. He had nothing. No trail, no evidence. Theo had erased everything.

Vincenzo smiled—cold, razor-sharp. "I see. You have nothing." He leaned back in his chair, exuding an effortless authority. "So let's not waste each other's time with empty threats."

The tension was suffocating. The agents weren't used to losing ground, but Vincenzo wasn't the type to be intimidated.

After a long moment, the lead agent sighed, rolling his shoulders. "We'll be watching, Mr. Moretti."

Vincenzo smirked. "Then enjoy the view."

With that, the agents turned and left, but something unexpected happened.

As they exited the estate, one of them—the youngest, barely noticeable among the group—brushed past Marco and slipped something into his hand.

A folded piece of paper.

Marco didn't react. He waited until they were out of sight before opening it.

His breath hitched.

The note was simple. Just an address.

But what made Vincenzo pause—what made his intuition stir—was the phrase scrawled at the bottom.

"Una volta Moretti..."

A phrase only his people used.

Marco handed him the note, his face unreadable. Vincenzo stared at it for a long moment, thoughts swirling. The Agency had come to intimidate him. They had left empty-handed.

But one of them—someone on the inside—had given them a clue.

This isn't a trap. This is an opportunity.

His fingers tightened around the paper.

A Memory Resurfaces

Vincenzo hadn't heard those words—Una volta Moretti—used like this since he was a child. It wasn't just a phrase. It was a calling card.

His father used to say it before important deals, a silent assurance between men who shared the same blood, the same cause. It was their signal.

The fact that someone in the Agency knew it meant one thing—someone in that room was connected to his past.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of realization settling in.

Marco watched him carefully. "What do you think?"

A slow smile curved Vincenzo's lips. "I think we've struck gold."

---

"sempre Moretti," Vincenzo murmured, folding the note between his fingers. His gaze darkened with thought. If the Agency was playing games, they had just made their first mistake.