The Edge Of The Knife

Chapter 11

The weight of Dominic’s words still echoed in Alex’s mind as he stepped out into the night. The air outside the estate was sharp, laced with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and distant exhaust. Thunder grumbled low across the horizon, a storm building—inside and out.

Sophia hadn’t said a word since they left the library. She walked beside him, her heels clicking softly against the wet pavement as they moved through the narrow passage between the estate’s southern buildings. Her profile was carved in shadow—elegant, unreadable. But Alex could feel it: the tension in her shoulders, the question hanging between them like a noose.

“Do you always lie so well?” he asked, voice low.

Sophia stopped, turning to face him. Her eyes—those soft, caramel eyes—held a flicker of defiance. “Do you always assume the worst?”

Alex stepped closer. “Carlo lied. Now he’s dead. You’re standing in the fire he left behind. Tell me why.”

She didn’t back away. “Carlo was working on something bigger than anyone realized. And you’re standing in it now, too.”

A muscle ticked in Alex’s jaw. “You keep talking in riddles.”

“Because I don’t know who I can trust yet.”

Alex searched her face. For all her elegance, all her calm, there was something frayed at the edges—something barely holding together. “Why did you really come here?”

Sophia looked away, up at the storm-thick clouds. “Because someone wanted me dead.”

Alex’s breath caught.

“After Carlo was killed,” she continued, “I was followed. Twice. Once by a man, I recognized from Russo territory. The second time…” She hesitated. “They tried to force me off the road. I went dark after that. Changed my number. Hid. Then I came here.”

“To hide behind the Morano name?”

“No.” She looked at him again. “To find out why Carlo died. And who gave the order.”

The rain began to fall in earnest, soft at first, then steadier—drumming against rooftops and the hood of Alex’s coat. He didn’t move.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he said. “Why come to me?”

“Because Carlo trusted you. And because whether you admit it or not, you’re not like the others. You ask questions.”

Alex let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s what gets people killed around here.”

Sophia stepped closer. “Then we need to find answers before they come for us both.”

Before Alex could respond, a flicker of motion caught his eye—down the alley, near the perimeter fence. A figure in black, hood pulled low, darted into the shadows.

“Stay here,” Alex ordered sharply, pulling his pistol from inside his coat.

He moved fast, silently, years of muscle memory guiding him. The rain covered his steps. The alley was narrow, littered with crates and rusted pipes. He reached the corner where the figure disappeared—and stopped.

The space was empty.

Except for a playing card. Left deliberately in a puddle, face up.

An ace of spades.

His blood ran cold.

Footsteps behind him. Sophia.

He turned. “I told you to stay back—”

Her gaze dropped to the card. She froze.

“It’s them, isn’t it?” she whispered.

Alex’s mind was racing. Too close. Too bold.

“This wasn’t a warning,” he said. “It was a message.”

Sophia swallowed. “Then they know you’re getting close.”

Or worse, Alex thought—they know who’s helping me.

Back at the estate, Dominic was waiting.

He stood in Alex’s office, rain dripping from his coat. He held a file in his hand—thin, worn, with the name Bianca Rivas typed across the tab.

Alex snatched it. “Where did you get this?”

“Gianni pulled it from a contact inside Vice. Bianca’s clean—on paper. But check this.” Dominic flipped to a photo tucked in the back. “That’s her two months ago. Look who she’s standing next to.”

The grainy image showed Bianca and a tall man in a gray suit. His face was turned slightly—but unmistakable.

“Alfredo Russo,” Alex said.

Dominic nodded grimly. “She was feeding him information.”

Alex closed the file slowly. The walls were shifting again. Another betrayal. Another ghost in the machine.

“We need to find her,” he said.

“She’s in hiding if she’s even alive,” Dominic replied. “But if she’s not dead yet, someone’s keeping her that way.”

Alex turned to Sophia, who had just entered, water streaking her coat. “Does the name Alfredo Russo mean anything to you?”

Her silence was telling.

“He came to one of Carlo’s meetings,” she said finally. “But he wasn’t listed on any of the official rosters. I didn’t think much of it.”

“You should have.”

Sophia stepped forward. “If he’s tied to Bianca, and Carlo was working with both of them—then whatever they were planning, it wasn’t just real estate.”

Alex’s phone buzzed. A message from Diego.

Warehouse. Pier 17. Midnight. Come alone.

He showed it to Dominic, who frowned. “Sounds like a trap.”

“Or a test.” Alex looked at Sophia. “Either way, I’m going.”

Dominic stepped between them. “You’re walking into Russo turf. You don’t know who’ll be waiting.”

Alex’s voice was steady. “Then I’ll find out.”

He grabbed his coat. Sophia moved to follow him.

“Not this time,” Alex said.

Her eyes flashed. “I’m already in it.”

“That’s exactly why you’re staying. One of us has to stay above water while the other dives.”

Sophia didn’t argue. But she didn’t look away either.

Outside, the night thickened.

And as Alex headed for the storm, he knew—something was shifting. The noose tightening. The mask slipping.

Whoever was pulling the strings had made a mistake.

They’d let Alex Morano survive this long.

And now, he was pulling back.

The warehouse door slammed shut behind Alex with a sharp clang, sealing him into a vast, dimly lit space that smelled of rust, oil, and something far less benign—blood.

Harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across crates stamped with the Morano crest. Somewhere above, a pipe groaned. Water dripped with a maddening rhythm.

He wasn’t alone.

From the shadows emerged three men—armed, sharp-eyed, and silent. Not Morano guards. These were outsiders. Mercenaries. Clean suits, foreign boots, tight trigger discipline.

Alex didn’t flinch. “You’re early,” he said, voice calm.

A fourth figure stepped out from behind a stack of crates. Tall, lean, with a familiar gait that twisted Alex’s gut.

Dominic.

“Didn’t expect you to show,” his brother said, hands in his pockets, but his tone was taut with tension.

Alex scanned the space. “I didn’t come for games.”

“Then stop playing them.” Dominic’s voice dropped. “You went rogue. Off-grid. Against Father’s orders.”

“I went hunting for the truth. While you played his loyal pet.”

Dominic’s eyes flashed. “You think I don’t want answers? Carlo was my friend too.”

“You have a funny way of showing it. You let them paint me as the traitor while the real rat hides behind the family crest.”

Dominic stepped forward. “You’ve been chasing ghosts, Alex. We both know what Father is capable of when he feels threatened. So unless you have something concrete—”

“I do.” Alex pulled out a small envelope and tossed it at Dominic’s feet. “Photos. Bank transfers. A decrypted message from Bianca Rivas. The leak’s closer than you think.”

Dominic crouched, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

His face paled.

“You should’ve come to me sooner.”

“I couldn’t trust you,” Alex said honestly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Dominic whispered, “So it’s true. Someone’s feeding intel to the Russos.”

Alex nodded. “And they used Carlo’s death to start a war.”

The mercenaries shifted, tense. One of them tapped an earpiece and muttered something in Russian.

Alex’s attention snapped to him. “They’re not here to guard you, are they?”

Before Dominic could answer, the warehouse lights went out.

Total darkness.

Gunfire erupted.

Alex dove behind a crate as bullets tore through the wood. Screams echoed. One of the mercenaries hit the ground with a wet thud.

“Dominic!” Alex shouted.

No response.

He pulled his pistol and crept low through the shadows, senses hyper-alert. Somewhere ahead, a figure moved—too fast, too smooth.

Then a flash—a woman’s silhouette, long hair, coat fluttering as she moved like a ghost through the smoke.

Sophia?

No. Couldn’t be.

A body fell near his feet. One of the mercs. Throat slit.

Then the lights flickered back on.

Only two men were still standing—Alex and the last remaining guard, who raised his weapon.

But he didn’t shoot.

Instead, he spoke—voice thick with an Eastern accent.

“The game changes, Morano.”

Alex fired first.

The man crumpled.

Silence settled, thick as ash.

Then Dominic stumbled into view, bleeding from the shoulder. “They tried to take me.”

“You think Father sent them?” Alex asked, breathless.

“No.” Dominic grimaced. “This wasn’t Father. This was someone else. Someone who didn’t want us talking.”

“Then we’re getting close.”

Dominic staggered. “We need to disappear. Together.”

Alex hesitated—but nodded. “Agreed. But not back to the estate. We go dark.”

As they moved toward the exit, Alex turned once more toward the shadows—where the mysterious woman had vanished.

It had felt like her. The way she moved. Her presence was like a ripple in the air.

Sophia.

Was she warning him?

Or watching him?

They stepped out into the fog-drenched alley behind the warehouse. Sirens wailed in the distance. The city was waking up—blind to the war brewing beneath its streets.

Dominic leaned against the wall, blood trailing down his arm.

“We need a medic,” Alex muttered. “And answers.”

“Then let’s start with the woman who just vanished into thin air.”

Alex exhaled. “Sophia Romano.”

“She’s hiding something,” Dominic said. “You can feel it.”

“I don’t just feel it,” Alex murmured. “I know it.”

They vanished into the fog.

Unseen, a figure watched from the rooftop above—coat billowing, hands gloved, eyes unreadable.

Sophia turned away.

Her mission was only just beginning.