The cassette was unmarked. No label. No handwriting. Just matte black plastic and magnetic silence.
Back at the Bellavita estate, Amara sat in Matteo's private library. Not his office — too exposed. Not her room — too predictable. The library was neutral ground: a temple of ink, dust, and secrets.
She slid the tape into the old player hidden behind a false panel in the bookshelf. Matteo had once called it "a relic of paranoia." Tonight, it felt like prophecy.
She pressed play.
Static.
Then a voice. Not the boy's. Older. Worn at the edges.
> "If this reaches the Diri-Owei daughter, then time's already against us."
Amara stilled.
"You don't know me, child. But I knew your grandfather. Not the man he became in Milan. The one before. The one who whispered to crocodiles and bribed river gods. I watched him bury truth under money and call it legacy."
A pause. A breath, shaky.
"The Castagnas were never the threat. They're loud and gilded. But the real wolves wear your name. They sit at your table. They drink your palm wine and poison your future."
The voice cracked there — not from fear, but from memory.
"There's a list. Names. Coordinates. The blood trail. I buried it at the shrine beneath Obuama. Your grandfather built it over an oil flare and told the world it was sacred. Typical."
The tape hissed louder now, as if the voice were trying to outpace something.
"Find the list before they do. And if you see Ebiere—"
A sharp click. Then silence.
Amara stared at the player.
Ebiere.
The name hit like cold water down her spine. She hadn't heard it in over a decade — not since her mother's last letter. Not since the accident.
No, not accident.
Assassination.
She leaned back slowly, pulse drumming at her temples. The voice was right. Her grandfather had rewritten history with a gold pen and a knife. She'd always known. But hearing it laid bare like this…
She switched the player off and rewound the tape, finger hovering over the button again. She didn't press it.
Not yet.
A knock at the door.
Matteo. He never knocked. Which meant it wasn't him.
"Come in," Amara said, voice smooth.
The door opened to reveal Imani — the estate's quiet housekeeper, but more importantly, an old associate from Lagos days. Short, composed, eyes like secrets.
"I brought what you asked for," Imani said, handing over a manila folder.
Inside: maps. Satellite photos. Flight records. Several from Port Harcourt, one from Yenagoa. She was thorough, as always.
Amara flipped to the last page.
A photograph — faded, timestamped five years ago.
In it: a woman in white lace, standing beside a carved wooden door with river reeds at her feet.
Her face was older now, more tired. But the scar across her jaw hadn't changed.
Ebiere. Alive.
"You're sure?" Amara asked, voice low.
Imani nodded. "She's been seen near Obuama twice this year. Always under cover of festival noise. Always alone."
"Who else knows?"
"Only me. And now you."
Amara folded the photo and tucked it into her bodice.
"I leave in three days."
Imani raised an eyebrow. "Matteo won't like that."
Amara smiled faintly. "He doesn't have to."
She walked to the fireplace, tossed the folder into the flames. Watched it curl and blacken until nothing remained but the outline of a coastline she once called home.
Behind her, Imani added softly, "If she's alive, Amara, that changes everything."
Amara turned.
"No," she said. "It confirms everything."
---
Later that night…
Matteo found her on the rooftop garden, barefoot, the wind toying with her hair like an old lover. She didn't turn when he approached.
"I heard you had a visitor."
She still didn't look at him. "I get those sometimes."
"Imani doesn't make house calls unless something's bleeding."
Amara finally turned. "You spying on your own house now?"
"I spy on everyone," he said. "It's how I stay alive."
They stood in silence a moment, Naples sprawling below them — golden lights over old bones.
"I know about the tape," he added.
"Then you know I'm leaving."
"I figured you would. But I didn't think you'd go alone."
She tilted her head, curious. "Why not?"
"Because you're not trying to survive anymore," he said quietly. "You're trying to remember. And remembering alone? That's dangerous."
A beat passed.
Then, softer: "Do you want me to come with you?"
Amara looked at him, really looked.
And said nothing.