Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE FRAME
The Symphony Center was a fortress of velvet and gold. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, casting fractured light across the city’s elite.
Sofia wore a deep emerald gown Luca had procured from a secure contact. She looked like old money, but beneath the silk, her heart beat like a trapped bird. On her right wrist sat Isabella’s diamond bracelet.
She stood near the champagne fountain, scanning the crowd.
“Comms check,” Luca’s voice crackled in a tiny earpiece hidden beneath her dark hair. He was in a surveillance van parked three blocks away.
“Loud and clear,” Sofia murmured into her champagne flute.
“Adrian is monitoring the thermal feeds from the roof. You have eyes on the target?”
“Not yet.”
Sofia moved through the crowd, her eyes darting past silk ties and diamond necklaces. Finally, she spotted him.
Dante stood near the balcony doors, looking impeccably calm in a bespoke tuxedo. He was speaking quietly into a wrist microphone, entirely unaware that his empire was beginning to crumble.
“Target acquired,” Sofia whispered. “Moving in.”
She glided across the marble floor, positioning herself in Dante’s blind spot. She needed to brush the bracelet against his left pocket to fry his comms.
As she closed the distance, Dante suddenly turned.
His eyes locked onto hers.
For a fraction of a second, surprise flashed across his face. He thought she was dead in the safe house ruins. But the surprise instantly morphed into a cold, terrifying smile.
He didn't run. He didn't draw a weapon. He stepped toward her, holding out a hand as if offering a dance.
“Miss Rossi,” Dante said smoothly, loud enough for the nearby socialites to assume they were old friends. “You look remarkably well for a ghost.”
Sofia didn't pull away. She let him take her hand, stepping into his personal space. “I’m resilient.”
“Like your brother,” Dante murmured, his grip tightening painfully on her fingers. “But look where that got him.”
Anger flared in Sofia’s chest, burning away the fear. She stepped closer, bringing her right wrist inches from his jacket pocket.
“Leo was a good man,” Sofia said, pressing her wrist against his side.
She triggered the clasp.
A silent, invisible pulse radiated from the diamonds. Dante’s earpiece let out a sharp, high-pitched whine. He flinched, his hand flying to his ear.
“His comms are down!” Adrian’s voice echoed in Sofia’s ear. “You have three minutes, Sofia! Get the drive!”
Dante stumbled back slightly, disoriented by the feedback loop frying his earpiece. Sofia bumped into him, her hand slipping into his right pocket with the skill of a seasoned pickpocket.
Her fingers brushed cold metal. The flash drive.
She pulled it out, concealing it in her palm.
“Clumsy of me,” Sofia said smoothly.
Dante ripped the earpiece out, his eyes furious. He reached for her, but Sofia was already turning away, slipping into the dense crowd.
“Got it,” Sofia whispered. “Heading to extraction.”
“Copy that,” Luca said. “Adrian, keep thermal eyes on Dante. Don't let him move without us knowing.”
Sofia pushed through the heavy brass doors leading to the service hallway. It was empty. The extraction point was at the loading dock, one floor down.
She hurried down the stairwell, her heels clicking on the concrete.
But as she reached the landing, the heavy fire door slammed shut behind her, the magnetic lock engaging with a loud clack.
Sofia froze.
The lights in the stairwell flickered and died.
“Sofia? What’s your status?” Luca’s voice was tense.
“The lights just went out. The door locked behind me,” she whispered.
“Adrian, check the feeds! Where is Dante?” Luca demanded over the comms.
There was a long silence.
“Dad…” Adrian’s voice trembled. “Dante isn't on the balcony anymore. His thermal signature… it’s gone.”
“How is that possible?” Sofia asked, her back pressed against the cold wall.
A flashlight beam suddenly cut through the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.
“Because thermal cameras can’t read through lead-lined maintenance shafts,” a voice echoed up the stairwell.
It wasn't Dante.
It was a woman.
A woman in a sharp black pantsuit, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at Sofia’s chest.
As she stepped into the ambient light bleeding through the high frosted windows, Sofia gasped.
The woman had the exact same cheekbones, the same dark eyes, the same fierce jawline as the photograph Luca had burned.
It was Isabella Moretti.
Luca’s dead wife.
And on her left cheek, barely visible under the dim light, was a small, distinct birthmark.
“Give me the drive,” the woman said, her voice like crushed ice.
May you like
“You’re… you’re supposed to be dead,” Sofia stammered.
“Isabella is dead,” the woman replied. “I’m her twin sister, Elena. And you’re holding my money.”
