Nobela ni Ugo Ananaba

The Gala SetupThe invitation looked innocent enough.Heavy cardstock, gold lettering, embossed seal of the Port Expansion Committee. “An Evening of Celebration. Il Palazzo, Friday. Formal attire.”Livia held it in her hand at the safehouse table, her expression unreadable. Alessandro stood across from her, jaw tight. Sergio leaned over her shoulder, snorting.“Celebration? More like an execution,” Sergio muttered.Carlo adjusted his glasses nervously. “They’re baiting you. The timing’s too convenient. Russo’s handprints are all over this.”Livia set the invitation down with care, as though it might burn her fingers. “If I don’t go, I look weak. Like I have something to hide.”Alessandro’s voice was low and firm. “If you go, you walk into Russo’s arena. He’ll have everything staged—photographers, councillors, maybe even the police. One misstep and he ruins you in front of half Milan.”She met his eyes, steady. “Which is why I have to go.”Clara scribbled furiously in her notebook, per

The Gala SetupThe invitation looked innocent enough.Heavy cardstock, gold lettering, embossed seal of the Port Expansion Committee. “An Evening of Celebration. Il Palazzo, Friday. Formal attire.”Livia held it in her hand at the safehouse table, her expression unreadable. Alessandro stood across from her, jaw tight. Sergio leaned over her shoulder, snorting.“Celebration? More like an execution,” Sergio muttered.Carlo adjusted his glasses nervously. “They’re baiting you. The timing’s too convenient. Russo’s handprints are all over this.”Livia set the invitation down with care, as though it might burn her fingers. “If I don’t go, I look weak. Like I have something to hide.”Alessandro’s voice was low and firm. “If you go, you walk into Russo’s arena. He’ll have everything staged—photographers, councillors, maybe even the police. One misstep and he ruins you in front of half Milan.”She met his eyes, steady. “Which is why I have to go.”Clara scribbled furiously in her notebook, per

Russo’s CounterstrikeThe ashtray overflowed.Russo sat alone in his penthouse study, the Milan skyline stretching beyond glass walls. Neon bled across his desk, illuminating half a dozen empty glasses. He hadn’t changed since the council meeting; his black coat still hung from his shoulders, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and the silk tie loosened and crooked.The photographs he’d used to corner Councillor Bianchi were scattered on the floor, trampled. Worthless now.Sofia stood by the bar, swirling a glass of red. She didn’t speak at first, just watched him smoke in silence. When she finally moved, her heels clicked sharply across the floor.“You lost,” she said simply.Russo’s gaze cut to her. “Not lost. Delayed.”“Bianchi chose her.” Sofia’s voice was edged with bitterness. “Livia. She walked in and—”Russo slammed his fist down, the glass rattling. “She humiliated me.” His voice dropped, cold and dangerous. “In front of a trembling rat I should have broken years ago.”Sofia sipped

The Councilor’s MeetingThe council chamber smelled of old oak and polished brass, like power sealed behind doors. Midnight draped the room in shadows, the chandeliers half-dimmed, their crystals catching only the faintest glow.Councilor Bianchi sat stiffly at the head of the table, papers spread before him. He wasn’t reading. His hands trembled too much for that, though he tried to hide it by steepling his fingers. Sweat dampened his collar.He had survived scandals before. A zoning permit here, a bribe there, nothing new. But this—this felt bigger. Tonight was not another routine favour to brush aside. Tonight, the choices pressed on his chest like a hand tightening around his throat.The double doors opened.Russo entered, black coat sweeping behind him, every movement sharp with authority. His smile was practiced, polished, but his eyes carried no warmth. Sofia glided after him in red silk, her heels tapping the marble, her gaze cutting through the room like glass.“Councilor,” R

The Councilor’s Choice“Madonna,” Bianchi whispered, clutching the glass in both hands. His career, his wealth, his family—everything balanced on a knife’s edge.He poured another shaky glass, sloshing wine across papers already stained. His eyes darted to the message glaring on the screen:Midnight tomorrow. Vote against Moretti’s permits—or the photos go public.Councilor Bianchi’s study smelled of old wood and panic. The curtains were drawn tight, muffling the hum of Milan’s nightlife. A half-empty decanter of Barolo sat on his desk beside a phone that wouldn’t stop buzzing.His throat closed. Russo’s timing was perfect. He couldn’t turn down Moretti without being gutted, but if Russo leaked the dirt, he’d drown anyway.A knock shattered his thoughts. He jumped, nearly spilling wine across his shirt.“Who’s there?”A voice, calm and low. “Friends, Councilor. Let us in.”Bianchi’s stomach dropped. He knew that voice. Moretti’s man.At the safehouse, the air was different—charged, re

The Flash DriveThe safehouse was quiet, but not peaceful.Livia sat at the battered wooden table, holding the flash drive between her palms. She hadn’t moved for minutes, only stared at it as though the thing might breathe. A simple metal stick, yet heavier than a tombstone.Alessandro paced behind her with his shirt clinging to him, damp with the night’s chaos. His movements were sharp and angry. “You should rest. You’ve barely closed your eyes since yesterday.”“I can’t,” she murmured.“You don’t need to look at it now. We have time.”Her gaze never wavered from the drive. “No, we don’t. Whatever Russo thinks he has on me—it’s in here. If I don’t know what it is, I can’t stop him.”Alessandro halted. “And if it’s worse than you expect? What then? You think staring at ghosts will make them vanish?”She turned to him slowly. “Better I face them than let him use them.”The air between them burned with unspoken things—fear, anger, and something gentler trying to break through. But befo