~ Alina’s POV

I moved with the bag in my hand, tightly clutched, making sure I wouldn’t lose it. When I stepped out of the building, my eyes fell on a pitch-black silhuoette standing just a few feet away from my car. My eyes widened as I stared at his calm composture. I moved a few feet forward and when our eyes met, my breath caught and my body went numb.

~ Flashback

I hurriedly collected the files and copied the digital records into my personal pen drive. When I looked around and was sure that there was no one around, I rushed. I moved swiftly and logged out before walking out of the building with trembling legs and a mind filled with spiralling thoughts.

When I reached my apartment, I locked the door and scattered the files on the floor before picking up my laptop and placing it beside the files. With a deep breath, I tied my hair in a bun and sat down on the floor, laying out all the files clearly in front of me and opening the digital records on my laptop. This specific moment made me realise that I should be grateful I was a tech genius and knew how to take care of my digital footprints.

I watched through all the digital records and realised that someone was manipulating them, changing them from time to time as if to alter the history itself. My breath caught in my throat when I read that their identities had been changed to “Russo“ after the accident to give them the history someone wanted.

But it ended there, and I realised I had to go back to the archives to find out more, to find out who was behind all of this, to find out who my parents actually were.

With a new goal in mind, I wrapped up everything and decided to investigate further on my next shift, even though a heavy pit settled in my stomach, warning me of the danger it contained.

~ The Next Day

“Alina! How are you?“ Marco, the coworker who worked the morning shift, held his hand out, and I took it, trying to keep up a positive appearance.

“I’m good, and you?“ There was a tremble in my voice when I spoke. I cleared my throat and passed him a smile so he wouldn’t get suspicious and ask me questions I didn’t want to answer.

“Everything alright?“ He raised his brows, and I nodded, assuring him that everything was fine even though the world was crumbling under my feet. He nodded and bid goodbye as he made his way out of the building. I punched in and went straight to the desk, eager to find more clues, to find something that would lead me to definite answers.

As I moved through multiple files, I noted down the ones that restricted my access, just like when I tried to access the Russos’ file. Once I had enough names, I moved to the desk and altered the complete access from every cabinet and moved swiftly before anyone came and tried to interject.

I hadn’t even noticed how long it had been when I took out the files and started investigating them. If there was something common in all of them, it was one thing: patterns.

Similarly, other families and estates had their records altered just like how Russo were substituted with the Morettis—my family. The repeated references to the city’s elite families and their legal histories and the properties that had an in-depth link to properties in Milan… a lot of it didn’t make sense.

I sat down on the chair, head in between my hands as I tried to grasp all of the information I had just single-handedly discovered. If all of this were available here, why has no one made a move yet?

Then it hit me, I moved…as swiftly as a rabbit and tried to go through the access logs, but to my surprise, it had already been wiped clean. My breath hitched in my throat when the possibility was confirmed that some higher-up was definitely involved in tampering with records. But the only question was…why? Why would someone tamper with property records? They were one of the most common frauds anyone could ever do.

But then it hit me…what if they’re staged as property frauds?

I stood up and moved back to the files and it was then that I noticed something from the corner of my eyes. I subtly moved my head a bit to my right and realized that the CCTV camera had moved from its position and was now facing me.

A shiver ran down my spine when the realization settled in…this can’t be…

So, I did what I thought was best. I clocked out and drove to the place I knew will definitely have the answers I’m looking for. I drove past the old buildings of Florence, and for some reasons, they screamed at me to turn back. But now I was too deep in to do so.

I parked the car a bit far from the building to ensure I remained hidden and entered the building, glad it didn’t have as much security as the new building did. The archives in this building were older than most of the genreations alive here and it was the only place that could actually talk to me.

Glad I knew the layout of the building, I made my way straight to the file I wanted to find, “The Russos.“ I slid it out and almost groaned in annoyance when I realized that it had also been tampered with. The bold word “Official“ on the file was proof someone didn’t want me reaching into history but I wouldn’t stop here…not when I was so close.

So, I moved swiftly, making sure the building didn’t even remember I was ever here, or had any proof of my presence. Once I was satisfied, I hurriedly picked up the file I wanted and stashed it in my bag.

~ Alina’s POV

Before I could make my move, the guy vanished, and no matter how much I looked around, he was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging it off, I got back into my car and drove off, a thousand questions spiralling in my mind, waiting for answers.

~ The Next Day

The moment I stepped into the archive building the next morning, something felt… wrong. It wasn’t loud or obvious, not something I could point at and explain, but it was there, settling deep in my chest like a quiet warning I couldn’t ignore. I tightened my grip on my bag and walked forward anyway, my heels echoing faintly against the marble floor as I tried to steady my breathing.

“You’re overthinking,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to focus on the routine, on the familiarity of this place that had always felt like a sanctuary to me before. But the second I turned toward my workstation, my steps came to an abrupt halt, and the breath I had been trying so hard to control slipped right out of me.

That guy was already there. He leaned casually against my desk, as if he had every right to be there, as if he belonged in a space that required layers of authorization just to enter. The same man from last night. The same silhouette that had stood near my car, unmoving, watching.

My body went still as my mind struggled to catch up, my fingers curling slightly around the strap of my bag as I forced myself to take a step forward. He didn’t move immediately. Instead, he watched me, calm and composed in a way that made something cold settle beneath my skin. “Good morning, Alina,” he said smoothly, pushing himself off the desk as if this were a normal interaction, as if we weren’t standing in the middle of something I didn’t yet understand.

My heart skipped. “How do you know my name?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care enough to soften it.

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know a lot of things,” he replied, and something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten.

I placed my bag on the desk slowly, refusing to look away from him. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “This area is restricted.”

“So is accessing sealed archives without authorization,” he answered just as calmly, and the words hit exactly where they were meant to.

For a second, my fingers stilled against the surface of the desk, but I forced myself to recover quickly, turning slightly as I powered on my system. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice controlled, even if my pulse had started to race.

He let out a quiet breath, almost amused. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “You just happened to remove security protocols, access the Russo archive, and walk out with information that doesn’t belong to you.”

I turned back to face him slowly, my expression tightening despite my efforts to remain composed. “If you’re accusing me of something, you should bring proof,” I replied, lifting my chin just enough to show I wasn’t backing down.

“I don’t need proof,” he said, stepping a little closer, not enough to invade my space, but enough to make his presence feel deliberate. “I need you to stop.”

The simplicity of the statement made it heavier. “Stop what?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Doing my job?”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp, observant, as if he was measuring something beneath the surface. “Let’s not pretend,” he said quietly. “You’re not just doing your job anymore.”

“And so what if I’m not?” I challenged, even though a part of me knew I should be more careful. “What exactly is it to you?”

There was a brief pause before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice carried a different weight. “My name is Riccardo Valente.”

The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it made it feel like it should. “And?” I asked, unimpressed on the surface, even if my instincts were telling me otherwise.

“I work with people who prefer their histories untouched,” he said.

I let out a quiet breath, shaking my head slightly. “That sounds like a polite way of saying you cover things up.”

For a split second, something flickered in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place, before it disappeared just as quickly. “Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like you understand more than you should.”

“I understand enough,” I replied, my voice tightening despite myself. “Records are being altered. Identities are being rewritten. That’s not preserving history, that’s manipulating it.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, and I could feel the shift in the air between us. “You shouldn’t have noticed that,” he said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done such a poor job hiding it,” I shot back before I could stop myself, the words slipping out with more bite than I intended.

Silence stretched between us after that, heavy and tense, and for a moment, I wondered if I had pushed too far. But then he exhaled softly, shaking his head just slightly. “You’re not afraid,” he observed.

“I am,” I admitted, surprising even myself. “I’m just not willing to walk away.”

Something in his eyes shifted at that, something deeper, harder to read. “People who don’t walk away,” he said quietly, “usually don’t get the choice later.”

A shiver ran down my spine, but I refused to let it show. “Is that a threat?” I asked.

“No,” he replied calmly. “It’s a fact.”

I swallowed, steadying myself. “Then maybe you should be clearer,” I said. “Because right now, all I see is someone trying to scare me into ignoring something important.”

“That ‘something important,’” he said, stepping back slightly this time, “is not what you think it is.”

“Then explain it,” I challenged immediately.

“I’m not here to explain,” he said. “I’m here to warn you.”

“About what?”

“About continuing this,” he answered. “About digging into things that were buried for a reason.”

“My parents are in those files,” I said before I could stop myself, the words slipping out before I had time to think. The moment they did, I felt it, that sharp twist of regret, but it was too late to take them back.

He didn’t react immediately, which somehow made it worse. When he finally did speak, his voice was calm, almost too calm. “I know,” he said.

My breath hitched. “What?”

“I know about Elena Moretti,” he continued. “And Luca Moretti.”

My chest tightened painfully. “You don’t get to say their names like that.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’ve been reading about them all night.”

“How do you—” I stopped myself, my thoughts spiraling. “How much do you know?”

“More than you,” he said simply.

Anger flared, cutting through the fear. “Then tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me why their records were altered. Tell me why they’re linked to the Russos. Tell me why someone changed their identities years after they died.”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” he said.

“Then give me the right ones!” I snapped, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay composed.

He stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “The right question,” he said, “is why are you still alive?”

The words hit me like a blow, and for a moment, I couldn’t respond. I just stared at him, my mind struggling to process what he had just said.

~ Alina’s POV

I stood there, dumbfounded as he continued to stare at me, “You’ve accessed things that don’t exist…officially,” he continued. “That puts you in a very… fragile position.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” I asked quietly, even though my heart drummed in my chest.

“Nothing,” he said.

I blinked, confused. “Nothing?”

“I’m not here to stop you,” he clarified. “Not directly. I’m here to make sure you understand what happens if you don’t stop yourself.”

“That sounds like the same thing,” I said.

“It’s not,” he replied.

I studied him carefully, something shifting in my thoughts. “If you were going to hurt me,” I said slowly, “you wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

A faint smile appeared on his lips. “Good,” he said. “You’re thinking.”

“Answer me one thing,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Are my parents actually dead?”

For the first time, he hesitated. It was brief, almost unnoticeable, but I saw it. “You’re in deeper than you realize,” he said instead of answering.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Frustration tightened in my chest. “Then you’re wasting your time,” I said. “Because I’m not stopping.”

“I know,” he replied, and something about the certainty in his voice caught me off guard.

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Because someone has to be,” he said quietly, before turning and walking away as if the conversation had already ended.

I stood there long after he was gone, my mind racing, my heart still pounding. “What the hell was that…” I whispered to myself as I finally sat down, my hands trembling slightly as I turned back to my system.

I pulled up the files I had accessed the night before, my fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. There was nothing. My breath caught as I searched again, trying different entries, different filters. Still nothing. “No… no, no…” I muttered under my breath, my pulse quickening as realization settled in. The Russo archive was gone. The Moretti records were restricted. Access was denied.

I leaned back slightly, forcing myself to breathe through the rising panic. “You think this is enough to stop me?” I whispered, my voice steadier now despite everything. If the files were gone, then I would find another way. I had already come too far to turn back now.

My fingers moved again, this time pulling up external registries, cross-referencing names, estates, financial logs, anything that hadn’t been completely erased. “Russo… Milan…” I murmured as fragments of data began to appear, incomplete but enough to follow. And then I saw a transaction record. But it was large, extremely large.

My breath caught as I opened it, my eyes scanning the details quickly. The date made my heart drop; it was only days after my parents’ supposed death.

“Who authorized this…” I whispered, my voice barely audible as the signature field loaded. And then I froze.

“No…” Because right there, clear and undeniable—the authorization wasn’t hidden, or erased; it was signed by none other than Luca Moretti.

~ A Few Days Later

The estate stood in front of me like something untouched by time, and yet, it felt like it had been waiting. I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag as I stared up at the tall iron gates, my reflection faintly visible in the polished black surface. The structure beyond it was massive, elegant in that cold, calculated way only old money could achieve. Every window was shut, every corner too perfect, too controlled. It didn’t look abandoned… it looked protected.

“What are you doing, Alina…” I whispered to myself, my breath barely steady. “You can still leave.”

But I didn’t even move. Because deep down, I already knew that I had crossed that line the moment I saw my father’s name signed on a transaction made after his death. There was no going back anymore.

This journey here had been careful and calculated. I avoided direct bookings, used cash wherever I could, and kept my routes unpredictable. No official requests, no digital trails that could lead anyone back to me. It wasn’t paranoia anymore, it was instinct.

Because someone had already wiped my access once. And someone like Riccardo didn’t appear out of nowhere without reason.

I exhaled slowly and turned away from the estate, forcing myself to move. Standing here and staring wouldn’t get me answers. I needed information…real, documented, and undeniable.

The city of Milan felt different from Florence. Sharper. Faster. Less forgiving. People moved with purpose here, and the weight of power wasn’t hidden behind history; it walked openly through the streets.

I blended in as best as I could, keeping my head low as I made my way toward the local registry offices. If the archive systems were compromised, then the only place left to dig was the physical backbone of it all. Milan was the place that had records that weren’t fully digitized yet, records that people often forgot still existed.

Inside, the air was colder than I expected, the quiet hum of old systems and scattered footsteps filling the space. I moved toward the terminal stations, keeping my movements natural as I slipped into a seat and logged into the public registry interface.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding…” I murmured under my breath as my fingers began to move. I searched names, estates, transfers, and everything I could.

At first, it was the same pattern I had already seen: fragmented data, partial records, inconsistencies that didn’t quite align. But the deeper I went, the clearer it became. This was clearly not just manipulation or tampering of the documents; it was systematic in some way.

I leaned closer to the screen, my eyes scanning through a sequence of linked identities, my breath slowing as the realization settled in. “This isn’t property fraud…” I whispered. “This is identity control.”

The profiles that were marked as deceased still appeared in financial authorizations. The accounts were linked to individuals who, legally, no longer existed. My chest tightened. “They’re not just erasing people…” I said quietly, my mind racing. “They’re reusing them.”