Michelle remained motionless, eyes fixed on John, while the world around her faded beneath the muffled sound of her own heartbeat.
She wanted to run to him, cling to his chest and confess that she had waited for him all her life, that she had loved a faceless ghost for years without understanding why.
She wanted to scream that every night she dreamed of a war she had never lived, of a marriage that never existed, of a death that still hurt as if it had happened yesterday.
But she didn't.
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you," she finally said, voice flat, almost mechanical.
She stood with slow, measured movements, as if every muscle in her body had to remember how to obey. She passed by John without looking at him. She knew that if she did, if their gazes met for one more second, she would collapse.
Were they memories or madness? Echoes of a mind fractured by violence… or the awakening of something more ancient than reason?
No. It couldn't be real.
She crossed the door and disappeared into the hallway, her footsteps echoing on the clean marble, too clean, as if the blood had never existed.
John watched her walk away, unable to move. Her upright, tense back disappeared into the corridor's shadows. Something inside him screamed to follow her, to stop her, to ask if she too…
But he didn't.
"Interesting," murmured an elderly voice, soft as worn velvet.
John turned his head. An older man, with white hair and an impeccable suit, watched him from the corner. His eyes were calm but penetrating, as if they could read his thoughts.
"You must be Mr. Becker," the old man continued, advancing with measured steps. "My name is Alfred Moreau. I have served this family since Miss Michelle was just a child."
John barely nodded, without taking his gaze from the empty hallway.
Alfred followed his gesture, and a slight smile crossed his lips. He said nothing more. He didn't need to. He observed him with serene, almost expectant curiosity, as if he had just witnessed something he had been waiting years for.
Then he bowed slightly and withdrew.
John remained alone in the room.
The silence was dense. Suffocating.
And in that silence, the questions began to devour him.
The echo of Alfred's footsteps faded in the corridor. John remained motionless a few seconds more, trying to order the whirlwind in his mind. There was something about that woman that disarmed him, something that made him forget who he was and why he was there. He exhaled slowly, trying to regain control, and headed toward the room they had assigned him.
The room they assigned him was austere: gray walls, a white bed, a dark wood desk, a window overlooking the Corvelli mansion's gardens. Nothing luxurious. Nothing unnecessary.
John closed the door and exhaled a long, tired sigh.
He took his encrypted phone from his inside pocket and dialed. Two rings. Three.
"Becker," responded Mia Hartmann's cold voice.
"I'm in," he said in a professional tone. "Damián trusts me. He has a daughter; her name is Michelle Corvelli. She's the Ghost."
There was silence.
"Are you sure?"
"Completely."
"Good. Maintain your position. Don't do anything until you have orders. Understood?"
John clenched his jaw.
"Understood."
Before he could hang up, Mia's voice softened barely, breaking for an instant the usual coldness.
"John… take care of yourself. Don't underestimate the Corvellis."
There was a brief silence, a contained echo between them.
"I won't," he responded, with a calm that hid something deeper.
He hung up.
He should summon his team, activate the contacts built during two years of infiltration, report every Corvelli movement, prepare the final blow that would bring down Europe's most powerful criminal empire.
But he couldn't think.
He couldn't act.
He only saw Michelle's face, her golden eyes, the way she had looked at him… as if she recognized him from a place deeper than memory.
Were they illusions? Or memories from another life?
He removed his jacket and tossed it on the chair. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his forehead.
The silence crushed him.
And in that silence, the bells of a church that didn't exist began to toll in his mind.
In another part of the house, time seemed to unfold. While John struggled between duty and a memory he didn't understand, Michelle sought refuge in water, trying to erase from her skin something that didn't belong to this world.
Hot water fell like a veil over Michelle's skin, sliding down her shoulders, her back, her legs. Steam filled the bathroom, enveloping her in a dense fog that seemed to want to hide the world.
She closed her eyes.
And the memory came, inevitable.
Jon's hands on her skin. Firm, soft, reverent. The weight of his body on hers, labored breathing, the heat that consumed them like ancient flames.
"Elena…" he whispered, voice broken by desire and devotion.
She pulled him toward her, tangling her fingers in his hair, kissing him with an urgency that transcended the present. Each caress was an oath. Each sigh, a promise.
Candlelight danced over their naked bodies, projecting shadows that intertwined like their souls. Jon looked at her with an intensity that stole her breath, as if she were the only real thing in a world of wars and betrayals.
"I love you," Elena murmured, voice trembling, while he sank into her with torturous slowness, each movement measured, each touch charged with eternity.
"I will love you forever, Elena," Jon responded, forehead pressed against hers, eyes closed, as if he wanted to engrave that instant on his soul forever.
And when the world exploded in white fire, when their bodies arched in unison and their voices merged in a silent cry, Michelle felt something inside her break and rebuild at the same time.
Cold water suddenly struck her, tearing her from the memory.
Michelle opened her eyes, gasping, hands pressed against the tile wall. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her legs trembled.
It couldn't be real.
It couldn't be.
Why did she remember something she had never lived?
She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a white towel. Her reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes too bright, lips trembling.
She needed to escape.
But she didn't know from what.
Two days later.
On a Corvelli estate, on the outskirts of Lyon, France, it rose like a relic of stone and power. The sun gilded the vineyards and gravel paths, fountains whispered with studied elegance.
Hernán Valmont arrived in a convoy of three black vehicles, with an escort of eight armed men. He wore a custom-made pearl gray suit, polished Italian shoes to a shine, and a gold watch that cost more than a year's average salary. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, and his smile was wide, confident, arrogant.
But there was something that didn't fit.
The elegance was forced. The refinement, fake. Every gesture seemed rehearsed, every word calculated to impress. There was no aura. Only emptiness disguised as power.
Damián Corvelli received him in the center of the courtyard, beside a wrought iron table where crystal glasses and a bottle of forty-year-old Scotch whisky rested.
"Hernán," Damián said, shaking his hand firmly. "Welcome."
"Damián, always a pleasure," Hernán responded, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So you managed to recruit the famous John Becker. I'd love to meet him. They say he's fascinating."
Damián nodded toward one side, where John observed the horizon with a glass in hand. Relaxed posture. Lethal gaze.
Both headed toward him.
"John," Damián said, "let me introduce you to Hernán Valmont."
"The Duke, to friends," Hernán added, extending his hand. "An honor to meet the legend."
John shook his hand without smiling.
"The honor is mine," he said in a dry voice.
Damián looked around, searching for something. Finally, he found her.
"Michelle, daughter," he called. "Come here."
Michelle appeared from inside the mansion. She wore a red dress that fit her figure like a second skin, dark hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, golden eyes made up with subtlety, lips barely painted crimson, and skin as white as snow. She was beautiful. Elegant. And completely out of place. But when she saw John, something inside her broke.
Since he appeared, her fortress—that armor that had kept her intact—was beginning to crack. She felt a fragility that bewildered her, a new tremor in her soul, as if her body remembered the vulnerability of loving.
She walked toward them with measured steps, avoiding looking at John.
"I mentioned to Hernán that I had intentions of marrying you to Michelle," Damián said casually.
Hernán smiled widely.
"Ah, yes. With all due respect, Damián, your daughter is hot," he said, elbowing John in a sign of complicity.
John clenched his jaw but didn't respond. He took a long drink of whisky.
Hernán let out a laugh.
"Just a bit standoffish, that's all."
Damián laughed with him, with that paternal attitude of "this joking young man."
"You're very serious, Becker," Hernán commented, looking at him curiously, before turning to Damián. "Is he always like this?"
"Leave him, that's how he is," Damián responded with a half smile. "You'd be surprised how fast he is with weapons."
Hernán raised his eyebrows, interested.
"I'm dying to see him in action."
At that instant, Michelle arrived before them. She greeted with a brief gesture, without looking at John.
"Good afternoon."
Hernán opened his arms as if he were going to receive her in a hug.
"But if it isn't my beautiful future wife! How are you, darling?"
Michelle took a step back, uncomfortable.
"Fine," she responded coldly.
Hernán didn't wait for permission. He took her by the waist and pulled her toward him forcefully.
"Come here."
Michelle struggled, pushing him.
"Let go of me, you disgusting animal!"
But Hernán didn't release her. He laughed, as if it were a game.
"Daughter, don't play hard to get," Damián said in a tired tone. "He'll be your husband someday."
Michelle looked at him with fury.
"I don't understand how you can accept him treating me this way."
She managed to break free with a violent shove. Hernán advanced toward her again, smile still on his lips.
And then John interposed himself.
He drew his Beretta from his back and aimed it directly at Hernán's head.
The silence was absolute.
"She told you to let her go," John said, voice low, lethal. "If you touch her again, I won't have a problem shooting you."
Hernán's eight men drew instantly, aiming at John from all angles.
Michelle felt the air escape her. She was protected, yes, but also terrified.
For the first time in a long time, she felt protected and vulnerable.
John had crossed a line for her, and that idea shook her. The woman who never needed to be defended discovered, with terror, that her heart trembled under that man's gaze.
Damián raised his hands, trying to calm the situation.
"Let's see, gentlemen, let's relax. We're going to lower the weapons."
John pulled out a second pistol with his left hand and aimed at Damián.
"I don't understand how you allow your daughter to be treated this way."
Damián blinked, surprised.
"You're exaggerating, John. Calm down."
Hernán let out a nervous, mocking laugh.
"Do we have a hero in the organization now? Remember your place, Becker. Or you'll end up like Swiss cheese."
John looked at him with terrifying calm.
"My place is here because I chose it. I could have also gone against you. Besides…" he barely turned his head toward Hernán, "you said you were dying to see me in action."
And he fired.
Eight shots. Eight hands. Eight weapons falling to the floor with a metallic crash.
Hernán's men screamed, clutching their bleeding wrists. No one had seen John move. Only the result.
John aimed again at Hernán, who had retreated three steps, pale.
"If you try anything again, I'll eliminate you. And you…" he fixed his gaze on Hernán, "who was dying to see me in action, will literally die."
Damián observed the scene with a mixture of concern and calculation. He understood, in that instant, that John Becker was not someone he could underestimate.
"Hernán," he said in a firm voice, "apologize to Michelle."
Hernán swallowed, still with his hands raised.
"I… I'm sorry, Michelle."
Damián nodded, satisfied.
"Let's continue, then."
John didn't lower his weapons.
"You apologize too."
The silence became glacial.
Damián Corvelli didn't take orders. He was Europe's most powerful criminal. He had judges, politicians, and armies in his pocket. He didn't kneel before anyone.
But then he felt something.
A presence. A weight. As if the air itself had become solid, crushing him from all angles. A cold sweat ran down his back. His hands barely trembled.
And he didn't understand why.
Europe's most powerful criminal felt, for an instant, the invisible weight of another era. An ancient power, oppressing him from within.
And, against all instinct, he lowered his gaze.
John stared at him fixedly, without blinking. There was no rage. No explicit threat.
Only existence.
Damián turned toward Michelle, confused, almost scared.
"I'm sorry, daughter."
Michelle looked at him, incredulous.
And John holstered his weapons.
The silence that followed was absolute.
No one breathed.
No one moved.
Michelle watched him, astonished. She remembered the pressure Jon Malverne exerted on his enemies.
John holstered his weapons.
The silence returned, absolute. Not a bird, not a sigh.
And in the background, at the mansion's doors, between shadow and the glow of dusk, Alfred Moreau observed the scene with ancient calm. His lips barely curved, in a smile that had been waiting years.
"You finally appeared, Malverne," he whispered.