Smokes and Mirrors

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rain tapped against the warehouse roof like an ominous clock, counting down time he didn’t have. Alex stood in the shadows, drenched from the dash through the storm, the damp collar of his coat sticking to his neck. In the center of the warehouse, tied to a rusted chair and bruised beyond recognition, was Luca Moretti—one of the last links to the Ventresca murder. Or so Alex hoped.

“Wake him,” Alex ordered.

One of his men splashed cold water on Luca’s face. The man groaned, sputtered, then blinked blearily into the light.

Alex crouched to eye level. “You’re going to tell me who gave the order to kill Carlo Ventresca. And if you lie again, I’ll let Rico take his time with you.”

Luca tried to spit but missed. “You think this is justice? You’re just another thug playing king.”

Alex’s voice dropped. “You’re confusing justice with mercy. I’m not offering either. Not unless you talk.”

The man hesitated, his swollen eye twitching. Then he whispered, “You’re looking in the wrong place. It wasn’t one of ours. You think it was the Santoros? The Spaniards? No. Someone on your own side sold you out.”

The words sliced into Alex’s gut. “Who?”

Luca wheezed out a laugh. “You already know. You just don’t want to believe it.”

Rico raised his fist, but Alex held him back. The pieces were falling together—too many betrayals, too many convenient slips of information. And now, another crack in the foundation.

He stood, his fists clenched. The warehouse suddenly felt too quiet. Too exposed.

“Dump him,” Alex said.

“—What do you mean?” Luca stammered.

“You’re not worth the bullets.”

Rico dragged him off as Alex walked back into the storm, his jaw tight, mind racing. If Luca wasn’t lying, then the enemy wasn’t across enemy lines—it was within.

He pulled his phone out and dialed.

“Dominic,” he said, the moment the call connected. “Meet me at the vault. Now.”

She stood by the fireplace in Eliza’s study, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The flickering flames painted her in restless shadows.

Eliza swirled a glass of wine, her eyes never leaving Sophia’s face. “So, what’s your next move, darling?”

Sophia didn’t answer. Her thoughts were scattered like shards of glass—Alex’s fury, the revelation in the car, the brief brush of vulnerability between them… all of it tugged at her, twisted something inside her.

“You’re not broken, Sophia,” Eliza said, voice low. “But if you keep chasing a man who’ll never trust you, you will be.”

Sophia finally turned. “You don’t know him.”

“I know men like him. Torn between vengeance and desire. He’ll consume you in the name of love. And when he finds out who you really are…”

Sophia stepped forward. “He won’t. Not yet. Not until I’ve figured out what my father started. Not until I understand why Carlo died.”

Eliza arched a brow. “You’re playing a dangerous game. One side will ask for blood. The other, for loyalty. You can’t give both.”

Sophia’s voice trembled slightly. “Then I’ll rewrite the rules.”

The door creaked behind her. A message had arrived—an envelope on fine paper bearing the Ventresca family seal. Eliza’s expression hardened as she recognized it.

Sophia picked it up and opened it. Inside, a single line:

“They know. Choose your side.”

Her stomach dropped. The walls were closing in faster than she thought.

The vault was more than a safe—it was a tomb for secrets. Tucked beneath one of Morano’s quiet backstreet buildings, it held files, photographs, bank ledgers… and pieces of truth that Alex had long buried.

Dominic arrived, windblown and agitated. “What is it?”

Alex didn’t speak at first. He opened a cabinet, pulling out an old dossier—one with Diego’s name on it.

“Have you ever doubted him?” Alex asked quietly.

Dominic hesitated. “Diego? He’d take a bullet for you.”

“I used to think that, too.”

He handed Dominic the file. Inside were surveillance photos, timestamps that didn’t add up, financial records that led nowhere, and Luca’s whispered accusation now echoing between them.

“I think he’s been feeding someone information. Maybe even manipulating this war.”

Dominic looked shaken. “That doesn’t make sense. Diego’s been with us since the beginning.”

“Exactly. He knows everything.”

A long pause.

“Do you want me to confront him?” Dominic asked.

“No,” Alex said. “Not yet. I need to know for sure. Follow him. Quietly. If he’s clean, we drop it. If not…”

Dominic nodded grimly. “Understood.”

As he left, Alex turned back to the files. One folder sat at the bottom—untouched since Carlo’s death. A photo slipped out as he opened it.

It was of Sophia.

Smiling. Younger. Standing beside Carlo at an old garden party, Alex barely remembered.

Her father had brought her into his world early, and Alex had missed it.

He stared at the photo long and hard, then whispered, “What are you hiding from me, Sophia?”

The city buzzed around her as she walked alone, dressed in shadows and resolve. She’d told Eliza she needed space—but really, she needed answers. She needed to know if Alex was still someone she could trust… or if he was the very storm tearing her world apart.

She reached the rooftop of the hotel where it all began. The wind howled like it remembered everything—the kisses, the lies, the gunfire.

Footsteps behind her.

Alex emerged from the dark, his coat dripping rain.

“You followed me,” she said.

“I always find you,” he replied.

They stood there in silence, the storm between them thicker than the clouds above.

“You left,” he said. “After everything.”

“I needed air. To think.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “You could have told me.”

“Would you have listened?”

He didn’t answer.

Sophia took a step closer. “There are things I can’t explain yet. Things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Try me.”

She looked up at him, eyes raw. “My father didn’t just die. He was silenced. And someone inside your family helped make it happen.”

His breath hitched. “Why would anyone in my family want Carlo dead?”

“Maybe because he knew something. Something that would have burned everything down.”

Alex stepped back, stunned. “You think this war started with my father. But you don’t know the half of it.”

“And neither do you,” she said.

For the first time, they weren’t lovers. They weren’t enemies. They were two ghosts, standing at the edge of truth.

Alex reached for her hand. She let him take it, for now.

But both knew this peace wouldn’t last.

Not with the war drawing blood again.

Not with betrayal growing inside their walls.