Whispers In The Smoke

Chapter Seven

The warehouse air was thick with the tang of oil, metal, and something far more dangerous—secrets. Alex stood at the edge of the steel platform overlooking the dim interior, eyes fixed on the figures below as smoke curled from the cigarette clenched between his fingers. His mind wasn’t on the deal being brokered. It was on her.

Sophia Romano.

Since their meeting, every instinct in him had gone to war. The way she spoke. The measured pauses. The flicker of calculation behind those sea-glass eyes. She wasn’t just a developer—or a grieving business partner. She was something else entirely.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“Focus,” Diego muttered beside him, nodding toward the men below. “This isn’t a social call.”

Alex exhaled slowly. “I’m focused.”

The men below were Russo affiliates, middle-tier muscle pretending to be untouchables. They were moving shipments—likely weapons—through Morano territory under forged contracts. The job was to observe, gather proof, and strike when the time was right.

But Alex wasn’t here for the Rus­sos. Not really.

He was here to regain control of his crumbling world.

And to find out what role Sophia played in burning it down.

“Word is she met with your father again this morning,” Diego said, scanning the floor below. “Private. Just the two of them.”

Alex didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened. “She’s planting roots fast.”

“She’s not here for real estate.”

“No,” Alex said, flicking ash to the floor, “she’s here to finish what someone else started.”

A flicker of movement below caught Diego’s attention. One of the smugglers had pulled something from his jacket—a small black phone. Burners were common. But this one had a red mark across the back, a symbol Alex recognized too well.

The Russos’ line.

He straightened. “We take them now.”

Diego hesitated. “We need more—”

“Now.”

They descended the metal staircase like wraiths. By the time the smugglers noticed, Alex had his pistol drawn.

“Drop it,” he barked.

Three of them froze. The fourth ran.

Diego took him down in two steps, smashing him into a rusted column with enough force to dislocate a shoulder.

Alex moved in fast, grabbing the phone from the man with the marked burner. “Who are you talking to?”

“I don’t know names!” the man stammered. “Just a drop! I swear!”

“What are you moving?”

“Crates—marked as car parts! We don’t open them!”

Diego found the manifest. Fake company. Stolen routing numbers.

“Who gave you the clearance?”

The smuggler’s voice cracked. “Some woman! She signed off on the permits. Said she had Morano backing.”

Alex’s blood ran cold. “What woman?”

“I don’t know! Tall, dark brown hair. Italian—sharp voice. She didn’t give a name. She had documents—your family seal.”

Sophia.

It had to be.

He stepped back, phone still clutched in his fist, the air around him seeming to tighten. The pieces were falling into place—but not in any pattern he understood.

Diego dragged the smuggler toward the loading dock. “What do you want to do with them?”

Alex’s gaze was locked on the burner phone. “Clean it. Trace the last number. Wipe the rest. Then dump it.”

“And the smugglers?”

“Send a message,” Alex said coldly. “One they won’t forget.”

Back at the estate, Vito Morano sat at the head of a long mahogany table, sipping espresso like it was blood. His eyes, sharp as broken glass, lifted when Alex entered.

“Trouble?” his father asked.

“When isn’t there?”

Vito smiled. “You’re sounding more like me.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Vito set down his cup. “What did you find?”

Alex threw the forged manifest on the table. “The Russos are using our routes. Smuggling under our noses. And someone from the inside gave them access.”

Vito’s gaze narrowed. “You think it’s one of ours?”

Alex didn’t hesitate. “I think it’s Sophia Romano.”

Silence pulsed between them.

Vito didn’t blink. “Why?”

“She’s connected to Carlo somehow. She shows up after his death. She has access to documents that carry our seal. She’s too polished. Too perfect.”

“She’s also a major investor. One whose money I need.”

“Then she’s bought her way in.”

Vito leaned back. “You’re letting your heart cloud your judgment.”

Alex’s voice was low. “You think this is about feelings?”

“Isn’t it?” his father asked, expression unreadable. “Because if it is, you’re not ready to take my place.”

Alex’s fists curled at his sides. “She’s playing us.”

“Then prove it,” Vito said coolly. “Until then, don’t touch her.”

Later that night, as the estate settled into an uneasy silence, Alex stood outside on the balcony overlooking the grounds. Rain glistened on the stone walls, lightning flashing in the distance.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He answered. “Yeah?”

A voice—female, distorted—whispered through the speaker. “She’s not who she says she is. Check the records. Search beneath the name.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Alex stared into the night, heart hammering.

Beneath the name?

He turned, storming inside, already pulling files from the drawer. Carlo’s ledger. Property transfers. Business associates.

Then he found it.

Romano.

But not Sophia.

Her name wasn’t listed anywhere.

Instead, there was a transaction—a shell company tied to Russo's interests. And the signature?

A name scrubbed clean, but the timestamp matched the day before Carlo’s death.

He sat heavily.

Sophia wasn’t just connected.

She was part of the setup.

Possibly even the architect.

The next morning, Sophia walked into the estate’s inner chamber with a poise that bordered on arrogance. She wore a charcoal dress, hair twisted elegantly, lips painted a shade too confident.

Alex was already waiting.

She offered a faint smile. “Morning.”

He didn’t return it. “We need to talk.”

“About the docks?” she asked as if it were routine.

“You knew.”

Her brows lifted. “Knew what?”

“That the Russos were smuggling through our routes. That Carlo was murdered for trying to stop it. That you’ve been lying since the moment you walked in.”

Sophia’s smile faltered—for a second. “Careful, Alex. You’re starting to sound paranoid.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “I don’t care how charming you are. Or how many papers you forge. If you had anything to do with Carlo’s death…”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “Then what?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them—too sharp, too quiet.

Then she said, voice smooth as velvet, “I’m not your enemy, Alex. But if you keep treating me like one…”

She leaned in.

“You’ll force me to become one.”

She walked away, heels clicking against stone, leaving the echo of her warning hanging in the air.

Alex stood still.

And for the first time since Carlo’s death, he wasn’t sure who was hunting who.