Chapter 89 – Smoke in the Streets
Portoscuro's mornings had their own rhythm — slower than Rome, sharper than Milan. Narrow streets breathed out the scent of strong coffee and sea salt, shop shutters groaning open as vendors prepared for another day. But beneath the hum of ordinary life, the undercurrent was always there: whispers traded in alleys, quick glances over shoulders, names spoken only when no one else could hear.
Kairo had always known how to move through it. The key was simple — never let the streets think they owned you, but never walk like you were above them either.
He and Elira stepped out of the safehouse just after sunrise. She'd tied her hair back, swapped her evening dress for dark jeans and a leather jacket, the subtle grace in her stride giving her away as someone used to being watched.
"You've been here before," she said as they turned down a side street.
"Many times," Kairo replied, eyes scanning the rows of shuttered windows. "Portoscuro remembers its debts. Good and bad."
"And we're here to collect?"
He gave the smallest nod.
Their first stop was an espresso bar so narrow it could barely fit four tables. The owner, a wiry man with a silver ring in his ear, froze when he saw Kairo — not with fear, but with the kind of wary respect one reserved for someone whose favors came at a price.
"Signor Voletti," the man said quietly, pouring two coffees without being asked. "Didn't expect you this far from the capital."
"Business," Kairo said simply. "And I hear you've had… visitors lately."
The man's eyes darted toward Elira, then back to Kairo. "Not in here. Too many ears."
Kairo slid a bill across the counter without looking at it. "Then where?"
A pause. Then the man jerked his chin toward the back door. "Five minutes. By the crates."
They waited, sipping their coffee like it was any other morning. When the owner finally joined them outside, the salt air was stronger, the sea gulls louder.
"Three nights ago," the man said. "Two of them. Not local. One spoke like he'd learned Italian from books. The other didn't speak at all. They wanted to know where to find the Hollow."
Kairo's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "And what did you tell them?"
"That the Hollow doesn't exist."
"And they believed you?" Elira asked.
The man looked at her for the first time, his gaze flicking briefly to the faint bruise at her jawline — a remnant from last night's fight. "No one believes me, signorina. But they left."
Kairo placed a hand on the man's shoulder — not warm, but not unkind. "If they come back, call the number you used last time. Don't talk to them again."
The man nodded quickly, disappearing back into the shop.
As they walked on, Elira glanced sideways at him. "He was afraid of them."
"He's afraid of everyone," Kairo said, "but I've never seen him avoid looking at someone like that before."
They moved deeper into the quarter, where the streets narrowed to thin ribbons between old stone buildings. This was where Portoscuro's real business was done — not in boardrooms, but in doorways and markets, in the unspoken agreements of who could pass and who couldn't.
The next informant was less willing. A woman in her late fifties who sold cigarettes out of an unmarked stall, she met every question with a shrug or a muttered "didn't see nothing." It wasn't until Kairo leaned in, his voice low, that she broke.
"They're not from here," she whispered, eyes flicking to Elira. "Not from Italy at all. I heard one of them call the other by name — Rahn. The way he moved… like someone who's never had to explain himself to anyone."
Kairo filed the name away. "And the other?"
"Never spoke. Never smiled. Just… watched."
Elira felt a chill at that.
By the time they returned to the safehouse, the sun was higher, the streets busier, but the air between them was heavier. Kairo dropped his coat over a chair, sat at the table, and pulled a small notebook from his inner pocket.
He wrote the name slowly. Rahn.
"Do you know him?" Elira asked.
Kairo didn't look up. "I know the type. Men like him don't come here without a reason. And they don't leave until they've taken something worth more than money."
Her gaze lingered on him. "And you think that something is you."
He looked at her then — really looked — and for a moment, the sharpness in his eyes gave way to something else.
"No, Elira," he said quietly. "It's us."