Alessia Mitchell sat by the window, staring at the rain that fell in torrents, streaking the glass. It was early evening, and the sky was darkening, the world outside swallowed by the muted grey of a storm. She had always found comfort in watching the rain. It was one of the few things that calmed her restless mind.

Her foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, were arguing again downstairs. They were never a family in the sense that other children had families. There was no warmth in their home, no laughter, no love. Alessia had learned long ago to retreat into her own world. Her mute state had only deepened over the years as the silence of her home grew more oppressive.

The nightmares had only worsened. Almost every night, she was haunted by fragmented images—a tall figure with cold eyes, a cry for help, the sensation of being yanked away from safety. She would wake up drenched in sweat, her heart hammering in her chest, only to find herself in the same dark room, with no one to console her.

Alessia never understood why she couldn't speak. It was as if her voice had been stolen from her by some unseen force. Her foster parents didn't try to understand, nor did they care. They thought it was a phase she would eventually grow out of. But they never tried to help her. They barely acknowledged her at all.

At sixteen, Alessia was almost completely isolated. She had no friends at school and no connection to anyone. Her life consisted of the same monotonous routine: school, home, silence. She spent her days withdrawn, her thoughts always distant, and her nights filled with the terrifying images of her past that she couldn't fully remember but knew were somehow tied to who she truly was.

It wasn't until the day of her seventeenth birthday that something changed.

She had no reason to believe it would be different from the others. Her foster parents hadn't even wished her a happy birthday. There was no celebration, no gift, not even a card. To them, it was just another day—another reminder that Alessia didn't belong.

But on that day, as she sat in the park during lunch break, something caught her attention—a man watching her from across the street. His eyes were intense, scanning the crowd with precision as if looking for someone. His posture was rigid, his face unreadable. Alessia felt an unsettling sensation crawl up her spine. Something about him felt familiar, though she couldn't place why.

She stood up, instinctively backing away, but he noticed her movement. His gaze locked onto hers for a moment, a brief flash of recognition that made her blood cold. He didn't approach her but didn't take his eyes off her either. Instead, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

For the first time in years, Alessia felt something stir deep inside her that went beyond fear. It was as if a door had been opened, just a crack, revealing a part of her long-forgotten past.

The De Luca family's search continued in Italy, and Giovanni's resolve grew stronger with each passing day. The years since Alessia's disappearance had not dulled his commitment to finding her. Despite the many dead ends, despite the constant frustration of coming up with nothing, he refused to give up.

He couldn't.

Giovanni spent hours in meetings with his trusted allies, scouring every lead and using every resource at his disposal. The De Luca family greatly influenced Italy's criminal world, but finding Alessia required more than money and power. It required a network of information, an army of people who could go places the family's enemies dared not tread. But even that hadn't yielded results.

Still, Giovanni remained driven. His father, Antonio, had aged, his once-imposing stature now weighed down by grief and years of fruitless searching. The older man had become consumed by his obsession, his eyes hollow with the same desperation Giovanni tried so hard to hide. Once powerful and invincible, the family had been torn apart by the loss of Alessia.

But Giovanni was determined to piece them back together.

"Giovanni," Sandro's voice broke through the silence of his office, "you're going to drive yourself mad with this. We've got to move forward. We've got to focus on what we can control."

Giovanni turned, meeting his brother's gaze. Sandro was the voice of reason, who kept the family grounded when Giovanni's drive pushed him too far. But Giovanni's answer was always the same.

"We will never move forward until we find her," he replied, quiet but firm. "Until Alessia is back with us, we're not whole."

In America, Alessia's life continued in its quiet, fractured routine. She was a good student, though she kept to herself, never allowing anyone to get too close. She spent most of her time at the library or walking the streets, lost in her own thoughts. Her mind often wandered back to the strange encounter in the park on her birthday, but she had no idea who the man was or why he seemed to recognize her.

The nightmares were growing more vivid, and her anxiety was becoming harder to control. The pressure of the unspoken truths about her life, the aching feeling of being out of place in her own skin, was beginning to overwhelm her.

It was during a routine visit to the local diner, where she sometimes went to escape the silence of her home, that Alessia's world began to shift again.

She sat by the window, her coffee cup clutched tightly in her hands, staring out at the bustling street when she noticed a young man sitting at the counter, a book in front of him. He had a calm demeanour, and his presence was one of quiet intensity, much like the man in the park. But this was different. The young man glanced at her, his eyes meeting hers.

Unlike the man from the park, this one didn't look like he was searching for her. Instead, his gaze lingered for a moment, soft yet inquisitive, and then he returned to his book. Something in the way he looked at her made her heart skip a beat. It was as if he saw her for who she truly was, beneath the layers of silence and pain.

Alessia quickly turned away, but the sensation of his gaze lingered, and a strange sense of curiosity began to blossom in her chest.

That evening, as Alessia sat in her room, her fingers tracing the edge of an old photo album she'd found in the attic weeks earlier, something inside her stirred. The photos were too old for her to remember, but they were a part of her. Faces that were unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time, places she couldn't place but somehow knew.

And then, the phone rang.

It was a call from an unknown number, and when Alessia answered, there was only silence on the other end. A moment passed, and a deep voice spoke, "Alessia."

Her heart skipped a beat. How did he know her name?

"I know who you are," the voice continued. "You're not alone. We're coming for you."

Alessia's breath caught in her throat as the voice faded, leaving nothing but the ringing in her ears. She dropped the phone, her mind racing. What had just happened? Who had called? And why did it feel like the truth was finally beginning to reveal itself?