THE OLD DEBT

Silvio's Warning

The next morning, Villa De Luca was quieter than usual. Valentina stood near the balcony of her suite, watching the ocean stretch like a secret. The gold locket felt like a noose around her neck, its weight impossible to ignore.

A knock.

She turned, heart quickening.

Elia, Adriano's right-hand man, entered.

"He wants you downstairs. Now."

"For what?"

Elia only stared. Valentina took the hint.

Downstairs, the study door was already open. Inside stood Adriano and Silvio Moretti, the man who had called her Lucía.

Adriano didn’t even look at her.

Silvio, on the other hand, turned toward her like she was a ghost in stilettos.

"You remember me now?" he asked.

Valentina met his gaze. "You're mistaken."

Silvio stepped forward, voice low and hard. "Lucía De Luca died the night Reina was shot. Or so we were told. But I was there. I pulled her out of the flames. She was five. I never forgot that face."

Adriano's jaw clenched. "Why didn’t you say this before?"

Silvio ignored him. "If you are her, you carry a debt, girl. Reina died for you. And if someone learns you survived, they’ll come for you."

Valentina crossed her arms. "Again—I don’t know you."

"Then you’re a dead woman walking," Silvio snapped.

Adriano's voice was ice. "Enough."

He turned to Valentina. "Go."

She hesitated, but left—feeling Adriano’s eyes following her out.

Adriano's Inner Conflict

Adriano stayed behind, fingers drumming the edge of his desk like he was ticking through memories too old to be safe.

"Are you certain?" he asked Silvio.

"Certain as I am of my own name," Silvio said. "That girl is Lucía. The fire didn’t kill her. It erased her. Someone hid her. Changed her."

Adriano walked to the liquor cart and poured bourbon into a crystal glass. He didn't drink—not anymore. But tonight, he stared at it like it held answers. The amber liquid shimmered like flames.

"Reina never told me she had a daughter."

"She wouldn’t have. You know what your father would’ve done."

"He hated Reina," Adriano muttered. "But he would’ve loved a weapon to use against her."

Silvio shifted. "She didn’t want Lucía to be part of this life. She begged me—if anything happened to her—to get the girl away."

Adriano gritted his teeth. "So someone took her and buried her in Havana. Changed her name. Taught her to lie so well she could steal my own breath."

He turned and stared at the wall where an old oil painting of his mother once hung. It was gone now—replaced by a mirror.

All he saw in it was a man cracking.

"If she's really Reina’s child..." he said.

"Then she’s your legacy," Silvio said.

Adriano gripped the edge of the cart. Legacy. That word tasted like blood.

Valentina Breaks

Back in her room, Valentina locked the door behind her, spine pressed flat against the wood like it could stop the truth from entering.

Lucía.

The name echoed inside her skull, louder now. Familiar. It clung to her like heat.

She crossed the room and opened the drawer beside the bed. She pulled out the locket and sat on the edge of the mattress. Her fingers shook as she opened it again.

That same haunting image stared back—a woman with eyes too much like hers, and a little girl clinging to her side. The edges of the photo were burned.

She tried to blink away the flood of thoughts, but they poured in like a broken dam.

Whispers in a language she forgot she understood.

A girl crying in a closet while gunshots rattled the air.

The scent of smoke.

A lullaby in a trembling voice—sung over a body that no longer breathed.

She rocked forward, clutching the locket to her chest.

"Why now? Why not years ago?"

Her nails dug into her palms. She couldn’t breathe.

For the first time in years, the great Valentina Cruz—master of deception, daughter of nothing—felt small.

Unmade.

Who was she if not the woman she’d spent years perfecting?

A lie? Or the lost truth of a girl no one was supposed to find?

Her reflection in the mirror mocked her. Smudged lipstick. Wild hair. Eyes that didn’t know whether to cry or burn.

She forced herself to breathe.

“You survived Havana. You survived worse than this,” she whispered. “Pull it together.”

But even as she stood, straightened her shoulders, and fixed her lipstick with practiced hands—something in her heart had cracked.

And Lucía, whoever she was, was starting to wake up.

Adriano Confronts Her

Evening fell. Candlelight flickered across the De Luca dining room.

Adriano sat at the head of the long table.

Valentina entered slowly. She wore black. No jewelry. No armor.

He gestured to the seat beside him. "Sit."

She did.

He didn’t speak at first.

Then: "Tell me what you remember."

"Nothing," she whispered. "Flashes. A woman. Fire. That’s all."

He studied her like she was a puzzle with half the pieces burned.

"What about Havana?"

"Foster homes. Gangs. Casinos. A man named Dario taught me to steal. The rest... you know."

"But not who you were."

She shook her head. "No."

Adriano leaned closer.

"Do you want to know?"

She met his eyes. "Do you want me to be her?"

He didn’t answer.

But he took her hand, and he didn’t let go.

A New Target

Later that night, Adriano stood alone in his surveillance room.

The screens showed different angles of the villa. His eyes focused on a still image frozen on one screen—a blurry shot of Valentina, or Lucía, from years ago, hidden in the background of a crowd scene in Sicily.

His hacker walked in.

"Boss, we traced the photo. Someone else was searching for her... last month."

Adriano turned sharply. "Who?"

The hacker hesitated. "Someone from the Vasari family."

Adriano’s knuckles tightened.

"They know she’s alive."

The camera feed flickered.

Outside, on a hill near the property, a scope glinted in the dark.

A sniper adjusting his aim.

Target: Valentina.

Fade to black.