CHAPTER 7: Ashes of the Past

The night was suffocating—thick with fog, the air saturated with the scent of rain and gasoline. Neon signs bled across the slick alley walls, casting ghostly glows in hues of crimson and blue. Footsteps echoed.

Rapid. Uneven. Urgent.

Elena’s tiny fingers clutched the rough fabric of her father's coat, struggling to match his long strides. She was just a child again—eight years old, confused, terrified, breath puffing white in the freezing air.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice small against the storm of his panic.

Michael Carter didn’t answer. His eyes were scanning—constantly. The gun holstered at his hip bounced slightly with each step. The alley stretched ahead like a tunnel with no end. Every puddle they passed mirrored their distorted reflections, trembling.

A flicker of movement.

From the shadows, they emerged.

Four men—blurred and faceless, except one.

The man with the cigarette.

He stood with an infuriating calmness, the ember of his smoke blinking like an eye in the dark. His voice slithered into the air like oil. “Detective Carter. You should’ve stayed in your lane.”

Gunfire cracked—sharp and merciless.

Michael shoved Elena behind him just as the first bullet struck. She screamed, clamping her hands over her ears. Her father's body jolted as more shots followed, his blood mixing with the rain.

She tried to move, but her feet sank into the ground like concrete.

Her father collapsed to his knees.

One last breath. One last look.

“Elena…” he mouthed, but no sound came.

Then—nothing.

The world tilted. Drenched in red. Echoes of gunfire turned into thunder.

The man with the cigarette stepped forward, his face finally coming into focus.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was Adrian.

He raised his gun—

And fired.

Elena shot upright in bed, her lungs dragging in air as if she’d surfaced from deep underwater. The scream caught in her throat, trembling behind her clenched teeth. It had felt real—too real. The heat of gunfire still echoed in her chest, the acrid smell of blood and smoke lingering in her nostrils.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting pale silver lines across her bedroom walls. Everything was still. Silent. But her heart thundered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

She pressed a shaky hand to her chest.

Her nightshirt clung to her skin, soaked with sweat. The sheets twisted around her legs like suffocating vines, pinning her down with invisible hands. With another breath—shaky and uneven—she peeled the covers off and swung her legs to the floor.

The hardwood was cold beneath her feet, grounding her.

Her gaze drifted to the door, where a thin sliver of light glowed from the hallway. The faint hum of a lamp, left on for comfort more than need, was the only sound in the house. Across the hallway, her mother’s room waited behind a closed door.

Elena sat there for a moment, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to slow the violent tremors in her limbs. The nightmare had dragged her back to that alley, back to the cold splash of rain, back to her father's dying breath and the terror that had hollowed her out.

No matter how many years passed, that night never left her.

Eventually, her breathing leveled enough for her to stand. She moved silently through the hallway, her bare feet padding over the worn rug. At the door to her mother’s room, she paused before gently pushing it open.

A soft scent of lavender greeted her. Mrs. Patel always lit a candle by the bedside before she left for the evening. The elderly caregiver had become more than just help—she was a thread holding what little remained of their fragile world together.

Elena stepped inside.

The small room was warm and quiet, the only sound the slow, rhythmic breathing of her mother beneath the heavy quilt. Her frail form was curled toward the wall, a small porcelain lamp casting soft amber light across her pale face. Loose strands of graying hair fanned over the pillow, and her thin hands were clasped together like a child’s.

Her mother’s face, once vibrant with spirit, looked fragile now—like crumpled paper worn soft by time and sorrow.

There had been a time when her mother’s laughter filled their home, bright and echoing, the kind that turned mundane moments into memories. She used to dance in the kitchen with the radio on, humming off-key, stealing kisses from her husband as he walked through the door.

But that woman had vanished the night her husband died.

Now, the woman before her was a stranger who flinched at sudden noises, who cried without understanding why, who sometimes stared into Elena’s eyes and asked where her father had gone.

Some nights she screamed, tearing at her bedsheets, raving about shadows in the room. Other nights, she didn’t speak at all.

Elena stepped closer, pulling the quilt gently up to her mother’s shoulders. The motion was automatic, careful. She reached down and brushed a silver curl away from her mother’s temple, fingers lingering against the cool skin.

“I’ll fix this,” she whispered, her voice thick, her throat aching. “I swear to you, Mama… I’ll make them pay.”

She stayed like that for a long moment, then slowly turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into a calm, protective darkness.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Back in her room, Elena walked to the window. She drew the curtains aside and stared out at the street below.

The city hadn’t changed. Neon signs blinked lazily above shuttered storefronts. Traffic lights shifted from red to green in a mechanical rhythm. A couple laughed drunkenly as they passed under the buzzing streetlight. Life went on, unaware, untouched.

But for her, the city had never been the same.

Every shadow looked like a man with a gun. Every whisper felt like a threat. Every smile—potential deception.

And somewhere out there, under the same moonlight, Adrian Moretti lived his life—lavish, protected, surrounded by loyalty and fear. He had built a kingdom on blood and secrets, and people bowed when he entered a room.

She had seen his face up close now—had looked into those sharp, glacial eyes. The same eyes from her nightmare.

The mind could blur memories, soften edges, replace horror with numbness.

But not hers.

She remembered everything. The sound of her father’s voice as he shouted for her to run. The way his body jerked with the impact of bullets. The warmth of his blood on her hands.

Her jaw clenched.

Adrian hadn’t fired the shots that night, maybe. But the men who had—he controlled them. Protected them. Used them.

And if he was a puppet, then someone else had been pulling strings above him. But her gut told her otherwise.

Adrian Moretti was no one’s puppet.

He was the spider in the center of the web.

A cold wind slipped in through a crack in the window frame, brushing against her sweat-damp skin. She didn’t move. Just stood there, staring out into the darkness, the weight of memory anchoring her to the floor.

The job at Inferno wasn’t just another assignment.

It was her way in.

She would smile at Adrian. Serve drinks. Take orders. Play dumb. And while he sat surrounded by wealth and steel walls of loyalty, she’d watch. Learn. Slip beneath his guard.

And when the time came, she would burn it all down.

Elena pressed a palm to the windowpane, the glass cool against her skin.

“Soon,” she murmured. “Very soon.” turned and returned back to the bed to catch some sleep, hoping not to be haunted by that same nightmare.

*****

The morning light poured in soft and golden through thin curtains. Elena was already dressed—black jeans hugging her legs, a crisp white shirt tucked in neatly beneath a worn leather jacket, and black sneakers laced tight. Her hair was pulled back, exposing a face still pale with the aftershock of the nightmare.

Downstairs, the station buzzed with its usual chaos. Phones rang. Officers chatted. Reports flew.

Elena walked through it all like a ghost.

At her desk, she barely sat before Captain Reeves’ voice called from across the room.

“Carter. Office.”

She rose without a word and entered.

Reeves was sipping coffee, eyes already on a report in his hands. When she stood in front of his desk, he glanced up with a tired sigh.

“I take it you didn’t get the job.”

Elena shook her head slowly. “He said he’d get back to me. But I could tell—it’s the same thing everyone else says when they see my record.”

Reeves muttered something under his breath. “Dammit.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That club was our best shot. We needed someone inside. If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to find another way in. We’ll figure it out.”

Elena swallowed the bitter taste in her throat.

She’d failed. Not just her team, but her father.

She turned to leave, barely making it halfway back to her desk when her phone rang.

She answered without checking the number. “Detective Carter.”

A beat of silence.

Then a deep, unfamiliar voice said, “You start tonight. 9 PM. Be on time.”

The line went dead.

Her fingers trembled around the phone.

She turned slowly, eyes locking with Reeves through his office window.

“I got the job.”