Valeria didn't go home that night.
Instead, she found herself walking the midnight streets, the city lights blurring past like a dream she couldn't wake from. Her studio, once her sanctuary, now felt like a stage—every canvas a set piece, every shadow a suspect.
The painting of herself—crying blood—haunted her mind. Who painted it? Who had access to her studio? Who knew her that intimately?
The signature on the note—N—offered a chilling clue.
If Nico was alive, he was watching her.
And if he was watching, he wanted her to know it.
---
By morning, she stood outside the Arclight Gallery—a sleek, private space nestled between two historic brownstones. This wasn't just any gallery. It was curated by Mirielle Cross, one of her mother's oldest friends, and a woman known for exhibiting controversial pieces tied to political and underground messages.
Mirielle was the last person Valeria knew from her mother's circle. She hadn't spoken to her in over a decade.
But if anyone knew what her mother had been tangled in, it was her.
The doors opened before she could knock.
Mirielle stood in the entryway—regal as ever in a black blazer, her silver hair pulled into a tight twist, lipstick the color of blood.
"Valeria," she said softly, as if she'd been expecting her. "You look just like Cassandra."
The words pierced deeper than she expected.
Valeria stepped inside.
"I need to ask you something," she said without pleasantries. "About my mother. And about Nico Carver."
Mirielle didn't flinch. Instead, she gestured toward a back room.
"I thought this day might come," she said. "Let's talk somewhere private."
---
The back of the gallery was more archive than art space—rows of locked cabinets, dim overhead lights, and the faint scent of old paper and paint.
Mirielle poured two cups of black coffee and handed one to Valeria.
"She was never just an art dealer," Mirielle said, watching her over the rim of her mug. "Your mother. She was… a messenger. A courier for people who couldn't afford to be seen."
Valeria frowned. "What kind of people?"
"The kind who disappear when they talk too much."
She pulled open a drawer and removed a thick file, dropping it on the table between them.
Inside were surveillance photos, documents, coded ledgers. And in the middle of it all—a photograph of Nico, standing beside a man with a serpent tattoo wrapped around his neck.
"Who is that?" Valeria whispered.
"A ghost," Mirielle said. "Goes by the name Marlow Crane. One of the most ruthless brokers in the underground exchange. Your mother stole something from him. Something worth killing over."
Valeria's skin prickled. "What did she steal?"
"I don't know," Mirielle admitted. "But Nico was her handler in the last operation. The two of them disappeared within weeks of each other."
"She didn't trust anyone else. Not even me."
Valeria leaned back in her chair, pulse pounding. "And Rafe DeLuca? Where does he fit into this?"
Mirielle paused.
"There are rumors that Rafe's father, Luca DeLuca, was laundering Marlow's money through one of their shell corporations. Cassandra found out. That's when she vanished."
The puzzle pieces were snapping together—horrifyingly fast.
Her mother. Rafe's father. Nico. All tangled in a conspiracy far beyond her comprehension.
"What about the painting?" Valeria asked. "The one I restored. It had the envelope hidden inside."
Mirielle nodded solemnly. "Your mother had a code. She embedded information into artwork. That painting was a message."
"A message for who?"
"Whoever survived."
---
As Valeria walked out of the gallery an hour later, she knew one thing for certain: this wasn't just about her parents. Or Nico. Or even Rafe.
It was about a secret powerful enough to get people killed.
And she was now part of it.
---
That evening, Valeria received an email from a blocked address.
No message. Just an attachment.
She hesitated, then clicked.
It was a video—grainy, timestamped from a surveillance feed. Her heart stopped when she saw what it showed.
Her mother.
Alive. Sitting across from Nico in a diner. They were talking animatedly. Cassandra reached into her coat and slid a USB flash drive across the table.
Nico took it.
Then… the screen glitched.
When it returned, her mother was gone.
And Nico was alone.
---
Valeria stared at the timestamp again.
Three days ago.
That meeting happened this week. In this city.
Her mother had come back.
And Nico had seen her—again.
So why hadn't he come to her?
---
That night, Valeria returned to her apartment to find the front door wide open.
Her stomach dropped.
She crept inside, heart in her throat.
The place was untouched.
Except for one thing.
Her laptop was on. Open.
Someone had left a note on the screen, typed in bold white letters over a black background:
> "Curiosity runs in your blood. Just like betrayal. Tell me, Vale—if you had to choose, who would you save? Your mother… or your liar lover?"
And below it—two pictures side by side.
Her mother. Bound. Blindfolded.
Rafe. Bleeding, unconscious, tied to a chair.
---
Before she could react, the laptop screen went black.
Then a countdown began:
72:00:00
A digital clock.
Ticking down.
To what?
She didn't know yet.
But someone was watching.
Someone was playing a game.
And they just made Valeria the prize.