Morning arrived too quickly, and yet, not quickly enough.
The moment my eyes opened, I didn't allow myself the luxury of lingering in bed. My body moved on instinct, detached and efficient, carrying me to the bathroom. Under the shower's hard spray, I scrubbed at my skin raw, as if I could scrape away the weight of the last few days. All the confusion, the revelations, the unexpected pain that had taken root beneath my ribs.
By the time I stepped out, the fogged mirror felt like a stranger was staring back.
I crossed the room and reached into the deepest part of my closet. My hand closing in around a set of gear I hadn't touched in years. The leather was stiff, smelling faintly of oil and old adrenaline. Piece by piece, I strapped weapons onto my body with practiced precision.
Knives secured to my thighs, more slipped into the hidden sheaths inside my jacket, another tucked into the side of my combat boots. Then came the firearms. I opened my gun safe and chose only what I could realistically carry. My favorite rifle with its silencer, two sidearms and a few, smaller pieces that disappeared easily beneath my clothes.
When I finished packing, the duffel bag was heavy but it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough, when walking toward the unknown. I can't help but wonder if that was what I had felt like in the past, when I first left for my mission that caused me my memories.
I turned toward the mirror again, catching my reflection. With my hair now gathered into a tight ponytail, I can't help but look at my eyes. The dark brown, hollowed from a night without rest. My father's eyes. My mother's hair.
I drew a long, steady breath, letting it settle somewhere just above the ache lodged in my chest. Then I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and stepped through the doorway of my bedroom. I didn't bother looking back. Whatever version of myself had lived in that room last night was gone, or a least buried deep enough that it no longer mattered.
Josh's voice reached before I reached the bottom of the stairs. I paused on the last step, catching the low murmur of conversation drifting from the foyer. Grandpa was standing with him, his posture stiff, hands leaning against his cane.
"...it's safer for her," Josh was saying, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable.
Grandpa's expression remained unreadable, though he nodded once, slow and deliberate. When he noticed me approaching, he straightened just a fraction, shifting his weight on his cane.
"There you are, Isolda," he said. His face was carved into its usual mask of calm, offering nothing. Not pride. Not worry. Just a man who had lived through enough wars.
"Nonno," I greeted.
"Your bodyguard here was making a request," he said, his eyes shifting briefly to the blond man beside him. "He seems to believe that it would be safer for you if he joined the mission."
Josh didn't speak. He didn't have to. His jaw was set, his injured shoulder held unnaturally square, as if sheer will alone could make it whole again.
Grandpa's gaze returned to me, heavy and assessing. "What do you think? Should I grant him permission? Would you prefer having him with you?"
It was a test. He wanted to see my reaction. Whether there was something between Josh and I. And frankly, I was starting to get tired of these men, thinking they could meddle into my lives.
I let out a measured breath, keeping my expression neutral even as irritation prickled beneath my skin.
"The less people involved, the better," I said, tone cool but respectful. "Mobility is everything. And an injured shoulder"—I flicked my gaze to Josh, just briefly—"is a liability I can't afford on a mission like this."
Josh's eyes darkened, but he didn't argue. He knew better.
So I turned my attention back to my grandfather. "I'll go alone, Nonno. It's cleaner that way."
Grandpa studied me for a long moment, too long, before giving me the faintest nod. His approval ghosting behind the composure he never let crack.
"Very well," he said. "As you wish."
He didn't even wait for my answer to settle. With a simple flick of his fingers, shadows peeled themselves from the corners of the foyer.
Two men stepped out. Silent and efficient. Predatory.
Josh stiffened instantly. "Wait...sir—"
But he didn't even get the chance to finish.
I kept my expression blank while the two men closed in and seized my childhood best friend by his arms. His head snapping back, muscles coiling. A desperate, reckless fight tearing out of him like flame ripping through dry straw.
"Let me go!" he snarled, twisting and kicking, driving an elbow into someone's ribs hard enough to make them grunt. "Sol...you don't understand—"
His voice cracked as the third guard stepped in from behind and, with practiced precision, jammed a hand against Josh's injured shoulder and twisted.
A sickening, wet pop reverberated through the foyer.
Josh choked on a scream, his knees buckling.
"Bastardi!" His voice broke again, hoarse with pain. "I know everything, Isolda! I'll tell you—I'll tell you the truth—just—just listen!"
The men hauled him upright again, dragging him backward across the polished floor as his boots scraped uselessly. He kept struggling, grunting in pain, but he was no match to the both of them. Not with his shoulder injured, and not with adrenaline alone.
"You think you know why you're going?" he shouted desperately, his eyes locked on mine even as they pulled him toward the doors. "You think he's telling you the whole truth? He's not! You need to know that—"
The heavy door on the other side slammed shut, along with the rest of his words, leaving only echoes behind. And silence.
Grandpa tapped his cane. Unbothered. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
"Now," he said calmly, turning back to me. "I hard from Dario himself that you two are planning to marry once this mission is over?"
His voice was smooth, almost paternal. But something cold tightened in my chest. Josh had been right about one thing. He knew something about my past. And my grandfather was, indeed, keeping something from me.
"Yes," I bit out, my hands tightening around the strap of my duffel bag. "Once I return and everything settles."
He nodded. "That's wonderful news." Then he drew a long breath, something like sadness, and fear, flickering across his face. It caught me off guard, because for a moment it almost made him look...human.
"Be safe."
"I know. I will."
"The jet's been refueled for your flight," he said. "I've assigned some of my best men to shadow you. Should you need anything..."
I shook my head before he could finish. My throat tightened, tears burning behind my eyes as I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. Just like I used to when I was little. When I found out my parents had been killed in that explosion.
"I'll be okay," I whispered against his shoulder. "I'll make it back."
He tapped my arm once, a gentle dismissal, and I let go.
I had barely taken two steps when his voice stopped me. "What Josh said about the past...it's best if you forget it."
I turned slowly, lips parting. A cold ripple sliding down my spine.
"Mark my words, mia nipote," he said. He leaned into his cane, his expression carved into something harder than stone. "The past is the past. Nothing will ever change that. The best you can do is move on."
For a heartbeat, silence pressed in around us. Heavy and suffocating.
And whatever truth Josh had tried to shout before they dragged him away...my grandfather would rather bury it than ever let me hear it.