Rain started falling just after midnight, soft at first, brushing the rooftops and cobbled streets of the Gothic Quarter. I pressed my face against the cold glass of my apartment window, watching the city disappear behind streaks of gray. The rain made everything feel like a secret, like the streets themselves were hiding something.
The note lay on my kitchen counter, unfolded, weighed down by a chipped espresso cup. I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the stranger's voice from the alley last night:
"Your father didn't just paint because he loved color."
Who was he? And how did he know my father so well?
I grabbed the note again, tracing the shaky lines of his handwriting. Six words. That's all it took to pull me into something I didn't understand.
I should have called the police. Or someone logical. Or even the gallery board. But logic felt useless against the man from last night. Somehow… I didn't want protection. I wanted answers.
I threw on a leather jacket, pulled the hood up, and slipped out into the rain-soaked streets. I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to move.
Across the city, Nico Romano stirred sugar into his espresso with slow, deliberate swirls. They had eyes on me everywhere, my apartment, my phone, my car, even the gallery. Trackers, surveillance, backups. Everything was in place.
But still, he hadn't given the order.
Leo leaned against the window behind him, arms crossed. "So what's the plan? Let her keep wandering around with the map like she's not a target?"
"She's not ready," Nico said calmly.
"For what? To die?"
"For the truth."
"You really think she doesn't know what her father did?"
"She knows parts," Nico replied, sipping his espresso. "But not the parts that matter."
Leo exhaled, frustrated. "She's Cruz's daughter. The last link to the Cortés Network. There are other people watching her too. People who don't ask permission."
Nico nodded slowly. "That's why we get to her first."
I took the metro to Montjuïc Hill, the last place I had ever seen my father alive. I remembered him taking me there as a little girl, letting me watch the sea stretch for miles. He said inspiration tasted different with salt in your lungs.
The wind whipped my hair across my face, and I closed my eyes. Memories crashed over me, his laugh, the smell of oil paint, the candle-shaped scar on his hand he said came from a kitchen accident. A lie I never questioned… until now.
And then I felt it. A hand slipping into my jacket pocket.
My eyes snapped open. I spun, but too late. The man from the alley had vanished into the sparse crowd of early tourists. My hand went to my pocket. The note was gone.
But there was something new.
A business card. No name. Just a black embossed candle wrapped in thorns. Below it, an address, scrawled neatly:
El Escondite, Midnight.
El Escondite. The Hideout. An abandoned wine cellar under the old docks, forbidden for decades.
My jaw clenched. Someone wanted me to find this place. Fine. I would.
Midnight.
The air in El Escondite was colder than I expected. Damp stone. Iron gates. Graffiti that looked like old sigils,messages left by ghosts with sharper aim than I'd ever have.
I slipped inside, phone flashlight in one hand, pepper spray in the other. Stone stairs groaned under my weight. Tiles were missing in places. Shadows twisted like they had life.
And then, light.
A single flickering lamp dangled above a table in the center of the room.
And there he was.
"Hello, Seraphina," Nico said. His voice was smoother here, less haunting, more human.
"You didn't have to steal from me to get my attention," I said, stepping into the circle of light.
"I didn't," he said. "Someone else did."
He pushed something toward me. My father's note, folded carefully, untouched.
I picked it up. "Why are you helping me?"
"I'm not," he said.
"Then what is this?"
"A warning," he said.
"About what?"
"The men coming for you. For the map. Your father's death wasn't random. It was ordered. Executed. Covered up by men who still walk free."
My pulse thundered in my ears. "And you want what? Revenge?"
"No," he said, faint smile on his lips. "I want the map."
"I don't know what it is. Or how to read it."
"You don't need to yet. I do."
I folded my arms. "And why should I trust you?"
"Because if you don't…" He stepped fully into the lamplight, silver and shadow carving his face. "You won't live long enough to learn what your father died to protect."
I shivered, heart hammering. I didn't believe in threats. I believed in action. And instinct.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small silver USB. "Take this. It'll help decode the painting. When you're ready, go to the address on the back."
I didn't take it immediately.
"Why me?" I asked finally.
"Because you're not a pawn," he said. "You're the daughter of the king who burned the board."
Then he vanished again, leaving me with the USB and more questions than I had arrived with.
Back at my apartment, I plugged in the USB. Only one file. A single, encrypted image overlay.
When I matched it to a photo of my father's painting, a new shape appeared beneath the colors. Coordinates.
Not for Spain. Italy.
I leaned back slowly, heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst.
Whatever my father had hidden… it wasn't just in the painting. It was somewhere else. Somewhere dangerous.
And now, I was part of it.