WHISPERING OF THE PAST

The trees swallowed her as she left the estate.

Rose moved fast, boots crunching through half-frozen leaves, her breath visible in sharp clouds. Her pulse hadn't settled since the moment Whitlock stepped through that door, not as a memory, but as a living, breathing lie.

He had looked thinner.

But not broken.

Just... in hiding.

And hiding well.

She reached the gate. It shut behind her with a mechanical click, far too controlled to be ordinary. She didn't look back. Her car was waiting just down the slope, and she started it with numb fingers, mind spinning like the wheels over gravel.

Whitlock was alive.

Silvio knew it.

And he'd handed that knowledge to her like a lit match.

Not to burn Whitlock.

To see what she would set fire to.

By the time she reached the hotel back in town, her nerves were stretched thin and fraying. She double-locked the door, drew the curtains, and tossed the keycard on the dresser.

Then she took out her phone.

There was a single message.

Unknown number.

Did you find what you needed, La Fiora?

Her heart stopped.

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Every instinct screamed at her to delete it, to shut the world out. But that would be weakness. And if Silvio was watching, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

So she typed:

Why give me his name if you already knew he was alive?

No reply.

Not for a full minute.

Then:

Because truth isn't a gift. It's a weapon. I wanted to see if you could hold it without cutting yourself.

Rose clenched her jaw.

And if I use it against you?

Another pause.

Then:

Then I'll know you're more dangerous than I hoped.

She turned the phone off, threw it on the bed, and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Every move, every word — calculated. Silvio wasn't just testing her. He was training her. Pushing her inch by inch toward the edge of something she didn't yet see.

She stayed in the hotel that night, sleep elusive and dreams fractured.

In the morning, she checked out early. She didn't go home.

Instead, she drove west — to a city with a quiet archive, one Whitlock's firm had ties to decades ago. It was time to dig without asking permission.

Inside the records office, the woman at the desk looked up wearily. "Legal files are limited-access."

"I have clearance," Rose lied smoothly, sliding a forged document across the counter — one she had paid an art-forger-turned-hacker to prepare a year ago when she started hunting her family's truth.

The woman frowned, then buzzed her through.

In the back, she found a paper trail. Not perfect. Not conclusive. But enough.

Shell companies. Estate transfers. Hidden accounts.

And one repeated name buried in the oldest documents.

Moore.

Eleanor Moore.

Rose sat back, breath catching.

So she had been involved — just like Marian had whispered before her death. It wasn't just Whitlock. There were others. Rose's parents had been surrounded by wolves in tailored suits.

She left the archive with copies, tucked them deep in her coat pocket, and stepped outside into the gray, damp air.

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

This time, no name. No greeting.

Just:

You're moving faster than expected. We should talk. Tonight. 10 p.m.

A location followed.

It wasn't Il Serpente.

It was a rooftop bar on the east river — discreet, elegant, half-empty in winter.

She didn't reply.

But she would go.

Because now, she wanted to test him.

---

At 9:59, Rose walked across the rooftop, her coat tugged tight against the cold wind. The city shimmered below — golden lights and moving shadows.

Silvio stood alone at a table near the railing, a glass of red in hand. No guards. No pretense.

Just him.

And that unshakable stillness.

"La Fiora," he said, without looking at her. "You came."

"I want answers," she said.

"No," he replied. "You want control. The answers are just the illusion you're chasing."

She sat opposite him.

"Whitlock's alive," she said. "Moore is involved. I found proof."

"I know."

"You let them live."

"I let them exist," he said calmly. "That's not the same."

Rose's eyes narrowed. "Why not destroy them?"

"Because pieces are only useful until the board is ready," he said. "Whitlock still holds keys to doors you haven't reached. Moore... keeps secrets buried in cement."

"And me?" she asked. "What am I?"

Silvio looked at her for a long moment.

"You're the piece that keeps moving when no one expects it to. And that... is dangerous."

Rose leaned forward. "Then maybe I should start acting like one."

For the first time, a flicker of something passed through his eyes — respect, maybe.

Or caution.

"Good," he said softly. "Because soon, someone will come to silence you. It won't be me. Not yet. But I want to see what you'll do when they knock on your door."

Rose stood, her voice low and certain.

"I don't need protection."

"No," Silvio said. "But you'll need power."

She left without looking back.

But she felt his gaze follow her all the way to the elevator.