Chapter 4: Ghost Protocol

The click sounded like an explosion in Noah’s ears. His heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to escape his chest. Beyond the door, the cold, silent hallway of the De Luca estate greeted him with dramatic, dim lighting. Noah didn't have time to admire the minimalist architecture, which surely cost enough to feed an entire province. He had to move. Now.

With agonizing care, Noah slipped out. The marble floor felt icy against his bare feet. Damn it, he hadn't even had time to find proper shoes, just the casual clothes he’d found in the guest closet—which thankfully fit—and his own battered sneakers, which had been tossed carelessly by the entrance. He jammed his feet into them in a rush, not bothering to tie the laces. He had one priority: get as far away from Matteo as possible.

Noah knew perfectly well that this security system was no joke. During the hack he’d performed yesterday, he had found a fatal loophole in the CCTV camera synchronization protocol that occurred every day at 5:45 AM. There was a foursecond window while the system handed over data to the backup server—a frame rate drop intentionally left there to keep from overloading the central processor. To him, those four seconds were the gateway to freedom.

"Crap, if I'd been a second late, I'd be dead," he whispered, his voice raspy. His body still felt wrecked. The soreness in his lower back and the lingering scent of Matteo’s cologne on his skin were constant reminders of what had happened a few hours ago. Noah shook his head hard, trying to chase away the image of the Don’s hungry gaze. Focus, Noah. Focus.

He crept past the massive pillars, counting the seconds in his head. One... two... three... As the camera in the corner of the ceiling swiveled with the nearly silent hum of its motor, Noah bolted like lightning across the open area toward the side access door. His legs felt heavy, his lungs began to burn, but adrenaline outweighed everything. He pressed Matteo’s spare access card against the biometric scanner.

The indicator light flashed yellow. Noah held his breath. Come on, you piece of junk. Just work with me!

Beep. Green.

The door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss. Noah slipped out and found himself in the expansive backyard. The humid morning air stung his skin. He didn't run straight for the main gate—that would be suicide. Instead, he headed for the perimeter wall on the west side, an area that, according to the digital map he’d stolen, had motion sensors that frequently triggered false positives from overhanging tree branches.

He climbed the concrete fence with great difficulty, his fingers scraped and bleeding against the rough stone, but he didn't care. Once his feet touched the ground outside the De Luca complex, Noah didn't look back. He ran through the morning fog, tracing the quiet asphalt road toward the city center.

About thirty minutes later, Noah reached a commercial district that was just starting to stir. He found an old, 24hour internet café in a narrow alley. With hands still trembling, he rented a computer in the darkest corner. This was the most crucial part: the erasure of his digital identity.

His fingers danced across the sticky keyboard with incredible speed. He logged into his hidden server, triggering an autodestruct script for all his social media accounts, fake residency data, and even the bank activity logs he had used. He created a "data explosion" that would leave a false trail leading in the opposite direction—making it look as if he were headed to the international airport, even though he had no intention of going there.

"Goodbye, old Noah Valen," he muttered. He pulled out his burner phone, popped out the SIM card, and snapped it in two. On the computer screen, lines of green code scrolled rapidly, wiping away every trace of his existence in the digital world in seconds. Clean sweep.

Noah left the internet café as the sun began to peek from behind the highrises. He walked toward the intercity bus station, forcing his pace to look casual even though every joint protested from sheer exhaustion. He bought a ticket with cash—no ID required, thanks to a little verbal manipulation of the sleepy ticket agent—for a small coastal town that wasn't even on the tourist map.

In the station bathroom, which smelled of urine and disinfectant, Noah stared at his reflection in a cracked mirror. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he used his jacket collar to cover the red marks on his neck. He dropped his phone into a trash can overflowing with dirty paper towels, making sure it was buried at the bottom.

"I’m starting from zero. You won't find me, Matteo. Never."

The old bus bound for Havenport wheezed, emitting black smoke as its engine turned over. Noah boarded and took the back seat, resting his head against the vibrating window glass. As the bus began to pull slowly out of the terminal, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter. He closed his eyes, letting the overwhelming exhaustion pull him into the darkness.

However, just as the bus cleared the terminal and hit the main road, the roar of a familiar sports car engine shattered the morning silence. Noah jolted awake, his eyes widening as he stared out the window.

From the opposite direction, a convoy of jetblack SUVs sped toward them at breakneck speed. In the lead, a luxury sedan with deeply tinted windows—one he recognized all too well—shot past like a black bullet. The convoy was heading straight for the bus station he had just left.

Noah froze in his seat, holding his breath. Through the blurred bus window, he could almost feel the cold aura of rage emanating from that sedan. Matteo De Luca was awake. And the predator had begun the hunt. The bus kept moving, but Noah’s heart began to race wildly; he realized his escape had only just begun, and the stakes were far higher than he had ever imagined.