Whispers Beneath Stone

The old roads twisted through the heart of Tuscany, hidden beneath the shroud of early dawn.

Ariella gripped the steering wheel tightly, every muscle in her body burning with exhaustion. The Land Rover rattled over uneven dirt paths, its headlights cutting through the lingering mist.

Beside her, Kael sat slumped in the passenger seat, his face pale and drenched in sweat, but his eyes remained open, sharp despite the pain.

"Almost there," Ariella muttered, her voice rough from hours of silence.

Their destination wasn't just another hideout.

It was La Stazione Vecchia—the Old Station.

A forgotten train depot buried deep in the hills near Siena, once used during the old smuggling routes, long abandoned by everyone except those who knew where to look.

Kael's voice was faint but steady. "You remembered this place?"

Ariella gave a grim nod, her knuckles white on the wheel.

"My father brought me here once," she said, her tone cold. "Told me this is where all dirty secrets are buried."

As they approached the crumbling structure, the outline of the depot emerged—massive stone arches looming over the overgrown tracks, hidden beneath ivy and decay.

She parked the vehicle inside the loading bay, cutting the engine.

Silence swallowed them.

Only the wind whispered through the broken glass windows.

Ariella stepped out, her boots crunching against gravel and rusted rails. She circled the vehicle and opened Kael's door, helping him out.

Together, they limped into the heart of the station.

Inside, dust coated everything.

Rusty lockers, old crates, and shattered lanterns littered the space.

But beyond the main hall, hidden behind a locked steel door, lay the real sanctuary.

Kael nodded toward it. "Open it. Code is still the same."

Ariella's fingers hesitated over the keypad, but muscle memory kicked in.

4-2-1-7-9.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open to reveal a hidden room—reinforced concrete walls, old surveillance monitors, and stacks of crates labeled only in numbers.

They stepped inside, the heavy door slamming shut behind them.

Safe, for now.

Kael collapsed onto an old leather chair, his breath ragged.

Ariella didn't speak.

She grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall and began tending to his wounds.

Her hands moved fast, but her mind spun even faster.

"Why didn't you tell me this place still existed?" she asked, voice tight.

Kael let out a weak chuckle, wincing.

"Didn't think we'd need it again," he muttered.

She finished wrapping his side, tying the bandage with more force than necessary.

"We need a plan," she said, standing to pace the room.

Her gaze landed on one of the locked crates.

Kael's eyes followed hers.

"Open it."

She pried it open, revealing stacks of old ledgers, burner phones, encrypted drives, and something else—

A faded map.

Marked routes. Safehouses. Names.

And one name stood out, circled in red.

Giuliano DeLuca.

Her heart stopped.

"This… this is a death list," she whispered.

Kael's voice dropped to a low, cold growl.

"It's worse than that. It's a war blueprint."

Ariella's hands tightened around the map.

Every name, every line—it all led back to her family.

"They're not hunting us," she realized, breathless.

"They're cleansing their own blood."

Kael met her gaze, his expression unreadable.

"Then it's time we start hunting back."

Ariella's eyes burned with a fire she had never known before.

She folded the map, slipping it into her coat.

"Rest while you can," she said, her voice like ice.

"Because tomorrow… we strike first."

Outside, dawn began to break.

But inside La Stazione Vecchia, war had already begun.

Silence lingered between them for a moment longer.

Then Kael's voice broke it, low and thoughtful.

"Giuliano was always the quiet one," he said, staring at the old monitors.

Ariella's chest tightened.

"I know," she muttered.

Kael turned his gaze to her, his expression sharp.

"But sometimes the quiet ones hold the sharpest knives."

Ariella let out a shaky breath.

"You think he's part of this?"

Kael shrugged, but his eyes told her everything.

"I think you already know the answer."

Ariella closed her eyes for a brief moment, swallowing the bitter truth.

"He wouldn't," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

Kael didn't press.

Instead, he asked, "What about the others? Matteo. Rafael. Salvatore himself."

She opened her eyes, her gaze cold and distant.

"They'll all burn," she said, her tone steady.

Kael offered a faint, approving nod.

"Good," he murmured. "Because this blueprint doesn't just name Giuliano."

He pointed at another section of the map.

Ariella's breath caught.

Her own name was there too. Circled twice.

The message was clear.

"They're not just cleansing blood," Kael said quietly. "They're erasing every threat to their power."

Ariella's hands curled into fists.

"Then let them try," she said through gritted teeth.

Her words weren't just a threat.

They were a promise.

POV: Rafael DeLuca

Milan — DeLuca Estate, Private Study, 7:15 AM

Rafael's fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass desk, his icy stare fixed on the live satellite feed.

Smoke still lingered over the Tuscan countryside.

He watched the aftermath with calm precision.

"They escaped," Matteo's voice broke through the silence, clipped and tense.

Rafael didn't flinch.

"Obviously," Rafael replied, voice cold as frost.

He zoomed in on the grainy footage, tracing the route the Land Rover had taken.

"La Stazione Vecchia," he muttered, almost amused.

Matteo's eyes narrowed.

"You knew they'd go there?"

Rafael's lips curled into a dark, knowing smirk.

"Of course," he said. "That place is in her blood."

He stood, straightening his cufflinks with calculated grace.

"Let her gather her courage there," Rafael continued, his tone laced with quiet threat.

"It won't change what's coming."

Matteo's jaw clenched.

"Orders?"

Rafael's gaze darkened, his smile razor-sharp.

"Let her believe she's safe," he said softly. "Then, when she steps out… we end her."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"This time, no survivors."

Matteo hesitated for a beat before asking, "And Giuliano? He's still… unpredictable."

Rafael's expression sharpened, eyes narrowing.

"We'll deal with him soon enough," he said, voice devoid of emotion.

He turned back to the window, watching the dawn rise over Milan.

"Blood is blood," Rafael said softly. "But even blood can be spilled."