He justwatches.
Sofia doesn’t notice him right away. She’s too busy concentrating on her pancake.
But I see the way his eyes soften when he looks at her—how that steel control melts just for her.
When Sofia finally spots him, she waves her spatula. “Papà! Bella made pancakes!”
“Did she?” His voice is low, smooth, but there’s something warm under it.
“Yes! But she dropped one on the floor.”
I glare at her, mock-offended. “Traitor.”
Sofia giggles, then runs off to grab plates.
He doesn’t move closer, but his eyes stay on me a moment longer than they should.
Something passes between us—unspoken, heavy, fragile.
The pen scratches across the paper, the sound small but steady.
I’ve filled three pages already—half sentences, fragments of thought, names circled and crossed out.
They can take my phone.
They can erase my files.
But they can’t take my voice.
Sofia had found the notebook for me this morning, grinning when she handed it over. “It’s for secrets,” she’d said proudly.
And now it’s my only weapon left.
The pages smell faintly of sugar and strawberry shampoo. Her handwriting covers the first few lines in wobbly letters:
For Bella. Don’t tell Papà. ?? Sofia
It makes me smile, even when I don’t want to.
The room is too quiet otherwise. It’s late afternoon, sunlight slanting gold through the glass, the city a silent pulse far below. I sit cross-legged on the bed in one of the soft sweaters Nicole left for me, hair piled on top of my head, pen tapping against my chin.
My notes have turned messy, restless—like the thoughts in my head.
The mayor. The contracts. The Morettis.
Someone wanted me gone, but not dead.
Why?
I start scribbling faster.
The drive-by, the erased files, the text with his name—none of it fits together neatly. There’s something deeper underneath, something that doesn’t add up.
The pen digs into the paper when I writeDante Morettifor the first time.
He’s the link between all of it.
The one I should be most afraid of.
