★★Mariella's POV★★



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I kill the engine on my motorcycle, the sound of the roaring machine dying down as I come to a stop. The ocean breeze ruffles my hair, a welcome change from the suffocating tension that's been building in my chest. I remove my helmet, letting the cool air hit my face. The docks are quiet tonight—too quiet, but I can hear the distant crash of waves against the shore, the unmistakable scent of salt in the air.

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of my backpack shift against my shoulders. Inside are the tools I'll need for this mission—everything from weapons to a change of clothes to help me blend in once I'm on the ship. My fingers curl around the straps, tightening my grip for a second, letting the anticipation build.

This is it.

The ship ahead is my ticket to Greece, to Elena, to Niko. Eliseo did his part—he hacked into the Greek shipping system, found the route, the cargo, everything. Now it's my turn to follow through.

I can't afford to fail. I won't fail.

I glance around, my eyes flicking over the dock, assessing every detail, every movement. The men in uniform shout orders, their voices cutting through the air. Armed guards move between the containers, checking and double-checking the loading process. I need to be quick, precise—like a shadow.

I can't let them spot me.

The darkness is my ally as I move, blending in with the shadows between the storage bins. I press my back against the cold, metal surface of one, keeping low, only moving when I'm sure no one is watching. My heart thumps louder in my chest, but my steps remain steady, calculated.

I watch the guards, their movements routine but sharp. They're trained, alert. There's no room for error. I keep to the perimeter, using the stacked containers as cover. I keep my pace slow, controlled. If they don't see me, they can't stop me.

The ship is in front of me now, massive and imposing. I see the side entrance, the way in, just beyond the main patrol area. The key will be timing, staying one step ahead. My breath catches for a moment as I feel the weight of the task ahead of me, but I shake it off. I can't afford to hesitate. Not now.

I'm so close now.

One of the guards turns away, and it's my opening. I take off, slipping between crates and staying low, my boots silent on the concrete. The cold metal of the ship is close now, and I can hear the sound of workers unloading crates, the ship creaking as the gangplank is lowered.

I make my way to the hatch, slipping behind another stack of crates just as a guard walks by, completely unaware of me. My hands are steady, even as my heart pounds in my chest, as I check the lock on the side door. It's rusty but it'll work. I yank it open quietly, slipping inside before anyone notices.

The air below deck is thick with the scent of oil and old machinery. The ship feels like a labyrinth, twisting and turning with narrow passageways and hidden corners. I move quickly, slipping through the shadows, keeping my footsteps as silent as possible. My hand brushes against the cool walls of the ship as I move deeper, eyes scanning for any signs of movement.

The boiler room is just ahead. I know it well—perfect for hiding, and out of sight from the main crew. But getting there means crossing through a section of the ship where a few guards are stationed. I crouch behind a stack of crates and wait, my breathing slow and measured, listening for the sound of their footsteps. When the coast is clear, I slide out of my hiding spot, moving like a shadow, blending with the darkness of the ship's underbelly.

Every step takes me closer to my goal. When I reach the boiler room door, I slip inside just as a guard rounds the corner. The heavy door closes behind me with a soft click, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm in.

Now I wait.

The hours pass like a slow burn, each second stretching longer than it should. Sleep won't come—not here, not now. The heat in the boiler room is unbearable, suffocating. My clothes stick to my skin, and every breath feels thick in my throat. Sweat drips down my neck as I sit curled up in the tightest corner I could find, my back pressed against the rusted metal wall.

I check my watch. By now, they're awake.

They know I'm gone.

Leon, Damien, and Antonio are probably tearing the city apart looking for me. Leon must be furious. He's always been protective, always sworn to keep me safe. But I couldn't let him do this—not this time.

I won't risk him. I won't risk any of them.

I sigh, leaning my head back against the metal. My stomach twists, but I ignore it. I dig into my backpack, pulling out a granola bar. The wrapper crinkles softly in the quiet of the room, and I bite into it, chewing slowly. It's dry and tasteless in my mouth, but it's something. I need to keep my strength up.

My fingers brush against something else in my bag—my burner phone.

I hesitate.

Then, before I can stop myself, I pull it out and type in a number I know by heart. The second I press call, my chest tightens.

I let it ring.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

My pulse pounds in my ears. Part of me hopes he won't pick up. Part of me aches for him to.

The ringing stops.

A deep, raspy voice fills the silence.

"Mariella?"

My chest tightens at the sound. I swallow past the lump in my throat, gripping the phone tighter.

"Papa?" My voice is small. Unsteady.

There's a beat of silence before he exhales, long and heavy. "Where are you, my girl? What are you doing?" His tone is sharp, but there's worry laced beneath it.

I close my eyes, resting my forehead against my knee. "I'm fine, Papa. I promise."

"Then why do I hear the lie in your voice?"

I let out a breath, shaky and uneven. Of course he knows. He always knows.

"I'm doing something important," I admit softly.

"Something important," he repeats, as if testing the words. His voice is quieter now. More careful. "Mariella... is this something important going to get you hurt?"

I hesitate. Because the truth is, it might. But I can't back down.

"Papa... I—" My throat tightens. I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to tell him. He deserves to know.

"It's about Mamma."

Silence.

"Mariella," his voice lowers, guarded now. "What about your mother?"

I take a shaky breath. My fingers clutch the phone so tightly that my knuckles ache.

"She wasn't killed by some drunk men that night, Papa." The words feel heavy, as if speaking them aloud makes them more real. "She was murdered. Targeted. By Theodoros Zervos."

The silence stretches between us, long and suffocating.

"What?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

"He—he ordered it, Papa. He had her taken. She—" My voice breaks, but I force myself to keep going. "She suffered. More than we ever knew. And I—" I squeeze my eyes shut. "I should've told you sooner. I should've told Enzo and Santino sooner, but I was scared. I didn't want you to hate me."

"Mariella." His voice is rough now, strained. I hear his breathing—slow, deliberate.

I rush to explain. "I found out a while ago. I was trying to confirm it, to be sure. I didn't want to bring you pain, not if—" I pause. "I was trying to protect you. All of you."

There's another long silence.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"Tesoro...(Treasure)" My breath catches. "My love, do you truly believe that I could ever hate you?"

I blink rapidly, my vision blurring. "I don't know, Papa. I kept this from you. I kept it from all of you."

"And you carried this weight alone?" His voice is softer now, but there's something else beneath it. A sadness. A deep, aching sorrow.

"I had to," I whisper. "I didn't want to lose you."

He exhales again, but this time, it's different. "Mariella, listen to me."

I wait.

"You are my daughter. No matter what secrets you've kept, no matter what you've done—I will never stop loving you."

A tear slips down my cheek.

"But, Dio, Mariella..." His voice shifts, filling with fear. "Tell me where you are."

I hesitate.

"Mariella."

I exhale slowly. "I'm on my way to Greece."

"No." The word is sharp, commanding. "No, you will turn around and come home. Now."

"Papa—"

"You are not going after him alone." I hear him move, the sound of chairs scraping. "Do you hear me? You will come back—"

"I can't."

"Mariella!"

"I have to do this."

"No, you don't!" His voice rises. "I will handle it. We will handle it. But you—my daughter—you will not throw yourself into danger for revenge!"

"It's not just revenge," I argue. "It's justice. For her. For us."

"And what about me?" His voice cracks, and it nearly breaks me. "What about your brothers? Do you think we can survive losing you too?"

I close my eyes.

"Papa, please." My voice is soft. "Trust me."

"I trust you," he says immediately. "I don't trust the world around you."

I swallow hard, forcing back the emotions rising in my chest.

"I love you, Papa."

"Mariella—"

I hang up.

The silence that follows is deafening.

As soon as the call disconnects, the weight of everything crashes down on me like a tidal wave. My breath catches, and a sharp, unbearable pain spreads through my chest. It feels like something inside me is breaking, shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.

I press my hand against my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut, but the sob rips through me anyway—silent, suffocating. My shoulders shake violently as I curl in on myself, pressing my forehead against my knee.

I can't breathe.

My chest tightens, squeezing painfully, as if my ribs are caving in. My heartbeat pounds erratically, each beat hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. It hurts. It hurts so much.

I try to stifle the sound, biting down hard on my hand, but my body trembles with the force of my grief. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and endless, dripping onto my lap as I rock slightly, trying—failing—to contain it.

The boiler room is sweltering, the thick air making it even harder to breathe, but the ache in my chest drowns out everything else.

I abandoned them. I hurt them.

And my father—my Papa—was begging me to come home.

I clutch at my shirt over my heart, my nails digging into the fabric as if I can physically hold myself together. My breaths come in sharp, shallow gasps, but nothing fills my lungs. My body feels too small for all the pain inside me.

I want to scream. To rip my own skin off just to make it stop.

But I can't.

I have to be quiet. I have to stay hidden.

I bury my face into my arms, trying to silence the sounds of my own breaking.

I don't know how long I sit there, shaking, sobbing into my hands, trying to push back the suffocating ache in my chest. But no matter how hard I try, it doesn't stop. It only sinks deeper, burrowing into my bones.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel utterly, devastatingly alone.

****

The days passed in a suffocating haze of heat and exhaustion. The boiler room was a hellish place, thick with hot air that clung to my skin and filled my lungs like smoke. I barely slept, only drifting off for short moments before the oppressive warmth jolted me awake, drenched in sweat.

Sometimes, when I couldn't take it anymore, I would slip out—just for a few minutes. I'd move like a shadow through the metal corridors, careful of every step, every breath. The cold air outside was a sharp relief, biting against my damp skin as I leaned against the cool metal of a shipping container, sucking in deep lungfuls of it. But I never stayed long. The risk of being seen was too great, and I couldn't afford to be caught.

Then, a loud thump echoed through the ship, followed by the blaring sound of an alarm. My eyes snapped open, my body jerking upright as my hand instinctively reached for my gun. My heart pounded wildly, but as I scanned my surroundings, I realized—I was here.

Greece.

I moved fast, strapping on my backpack and slipping my gun into the waistband of my cargos. My fingers trembled slightly as I adjusted my gloves. I took one last look at the dark, sweltering corner that had been my hiding place for days, then I slipped out.

The ship was alive with movement—workers shouting, footsteps echoing against the metal flooring as they prepared to unload. I pressed my back against the wall, my breath steady, my mind sharp.

Stay low. Stay invisible.

I moved quickly, weaving between crates and slipping behind stacks of cargo, my steps precise and measured. A pair of guards stood at the loading dock, smoking and chatting idly. I crouched behind a container, waiting for the right moment.

Then a forklift rumbled past, its engine loud enough to cover the sound of my footsteps. I took my chance.

I darted forward, keeping low, slipping past the guards just as they turned their backs. My heart hammered, but my body moved on instinct. One step at a time.

Once I made it down the ramp, I kept my pace steady, my head low, blending in with the workers filing out of the port. I pulled my hood up, ensuring it draped over my face, concealing my ruffled hair. The brim cast a shadow over my features, and I hunched my shoulders, making myself smaller—less noticeable.

With steady, measured steps, I walked out of the port.

No one stopped me.

No one even looked my way.

And just like that—I was in Greece.

The streets of Greece buzzed with life, the air thick with the scent of grilled meats, fresh bread, and the salty tang of the sea. Voices overlapped—shopkeepers shouting their prices, tourists laughing, locals deep in conversation. The energy of the city moved around me like a current, but I kept my head down, my pace steady.

I checked behind me every few minutes, scanning the faces, the movements, making sure I wasn't being followed. So far, I was in the clear. But I knew better than to let my guard down.

After weaving through narrow alleys and bustling roads, I finally reached my destination—a deadbeat hotel on the outskirts of the city. The neon sign above the entrance flickered weakly, casting a dim glow over the cracked pavement. It was the kind of place no one asked questions. Perfect.

I stepped inside, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Behind the desk, a man sat with his legs propped up on the counter, eyes glued to a small, outdated television broadcasting a football match. He barely acknowledged my presence.

"Χρειάζομαι ένα δωμάτιο για μερικές νύχτες. (I need a room for a few nights.)"

He let out a grunt, still watching the game. "Δύο βράδια ή περισσότερα; (Two nights or more?)"

"Θα δω. Ξεκινάμε με δύο. (I'll see. Let's start with two.) "

He finally turned his gaze to me, his eyes scanning my face lazily before holding out his hand. "Ταυτότητα και πληρωμή. (ID and payment.) "

I reached into my bag, pulling out a fake ID—one of my many. It was Greek, with a name that wasn't mine but could be, if anyone asked. I placed it in his hand along with the cash.

He barely glanced at the ID, too disinterested to care. After pocketing the money, he grabbed a key from the board behind him and tossed it onto the counter. "Δωμάτιο 14. Στον δεύτερο όροφο. (Room 14. Second floor.) "

I took the key without another word and headed up the creaky staircase.

The hallway was dimly lit, the paint on the walls peeling, the carpet stained with years of neglect. But I didn't care. All I needed was a place to lay low.

I slid the key into the lock, pushing open the door. The room was as bad as I expected—small, with a bed that looked like it had seen better days, a single flickering light, and a rusted ceiling fan that let out a slow, tired creak.

I locked the door behind me, dropping my bag on the bed. Then, I let out a slow breath.

I made it.

Step one—complete.

As soon as I locked the door, I did a full sweep of the room. Old habits. Checking the windows, the weak locks, any hidden cameras—not that this place had the budget for that kind of surveillance, but I wasn't taking chances. I peeked out the window, my fingers curling around the edge of the curtain before I yanked it shut.

No one was watching.

I took out my burner phone, my hands steady as I typed in a number I knew by heart. A moment later, the line clicked.

"Please tell me you're calling to say you've come to your senses and booked a flight home," Eliseo's voice came through, dry as ever.

"Not a chance," I muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I made it to Greece. I need information."

A heavy sigh. "Of course you do. You never call just to chat."

I waited. I could hear him typing, the quiet clicks of a keyboard in the background. Then he spoke.

"Niko's routine is predictable. He moves between his estate and a few high-end clubs he owns in the city. Security is tight, but it's nothing you can't handle."

"And Elena?" I pressed.

There was a brief pause before Eliseo continued. "She was last seen being moved to a remote location—a warehouse about twenty miles outside the city. It's heavily guarded, which means she's either being held there or they moved her again before you arrived."

I clenched my jaw. "Send me everything. Deeds, blueprints, security patterns. I need to see what I'm working with."

"Already done. Check your burner laptop."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.

For a second, neither of us spoke. I stared at the wall, gripping the phone a little tighter before asking, "How is everyone?"

Eliseo scoffed. "Which 'everyone'? Because the whole damn world is looking for you. Your father is furious, Enzo is losing his mind, and Giovanni is ready to kill someone. I have about fifteen missed calls from your family, all demanding to know if I know where you are."

I exhaled slowly. "How is he?"

Eliseo didn't even ask who I meant. He knew.

His voice dropped slightly. "Not good, Mariella." He hesitated, then added, "Leon's not even Leon anymore. It's like he's on autopilot. He's barely speaking to anyone. Hasn't been sleeping. And now he's back in France—he's going to see your father."

My breath caught. "He's what?"

"He's desperate, Mari. He thinks your father knows something and isn't telling him. He's willing to tear through the entire Italian mafia to find you."

I closed my eyes for a second, pressing my fingers against my temple. I should've known. Leon wouldn't just sit still and wait.

"I didn't want this," I murmured.

"Well, it's happening." Eliseo's voice softened slightly. "Mari, he's not going to stop. And when he finds you—because let's be honest, he will—you better be ready for whatever comes next."

I swallowed hard.

"I have to go," I said quickly. "Send me the files."

"Mari—"

"I'll be fine, Eliseo."

"Yeah, I've heard that before," he muttered.

I hesitated, then said quietly, "Thank you."

Then I hung up.

And for the first time since stepping off that ship, I felt the weight of what I'd done pressing against my chest.

Utterly exhausted but refusing to rest, I pulled my burner laptop from my backpack and set it on the small wooden desk. The screen's dim glow was the only light in the room as I opened the encrypted file Eliseo had sent.

Niko Zervos – Documentation

Page after page, I scrolled through his entire operation—his businesses, his money laundering schemes, the corrupt politicians in his pocket, the trafficking networks that ran under his name. Each detail felt like gasoline being poured onto the fire inside me.

I leaned forward, fingers tracing over the blurry security footage of a warehouse—the one where Elena was last seen. Red markings from Eliseo highlighted key entry points, guard rotations, and potential blind spots.

I had a job to do. No time for exhaustion. No room for hesitation.

The night stretched on as I absorbed every detail, memorizing the layout, the security, the names of the men I would have to kill. My head ached, my body screamed for rest, but I ignored it. I had a duty. A mission.

Stay on point. Stay focused.

Because in a few hours, the real work would begin.

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Shes all alone now..

Its so sad..

I wonder how leon is holding up.

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡

*Mariella's Outfit*