Truth

The study was exactly what I expected a high-functioning sociopath's workspace to look like: dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books that probably cost more than my kidneys, and a distinct lack of anything comforting. No family photos, no knick-knacks. Just power and disturbing silence.

Stephan moved behind a massive mahogany desk, the only barrier between us. He tossed the manila envelope onto the polished surface. It slid across the wood and stopped inches from my hand.

"Open it," he ordered. His nonchalance was back, but the tension in his shoulders ruined the effect.

I crossed my arms, refusing to look at the envelope. "I don't open strange packages from men who kidnap me. That's how people get anthrax."

Stephan sighed, a sound of long-suffering patience. He sat down, leaning back in his leather chair and tenting his fingers. "If I wanted to kill you, Alina, I would have done it while you were drooling on my pillow this morning. Open the damn envelope."

"I do not drool," I snapped, though heat flushed my cheeks.

I snatched the envelope up, if only to stop him from looking at me with those analytical, icy eyes. I tore the tab and dumped the contents onto the desk.

It wasn't a bomb. It wasn't a severed finger, as I had expected.

It was a piece of parchment—old, yellowing at the edges—and a strange, translucent plastic sheet covered in holes and geometric lines.

I picked up the parchment. It was covered in gibberish. Rows of letters and numbers that made zero sense. XJ-99-ALPHA-OMEGA...

"What is this?" I asked, looking up at him. "A rejection letter from the Illuminati?"

"It's a cipher," Stephan said, his voice devoid of humor. "From the Emiliano estate. Your grandfather's estate."

I dropped the paper. "I don't have a grandfather. My parents were—"

"Adoptive," he cut in, his tone sharp as a butcher knife. "Your biological mother was an Emiliano. One of the most powerful families in Spain. And until recently, everyone thought their line was extinguished. Marvinez ensured it."

The name sent a chill down my spine, the name of the man that had tried to kill me a few years back. "And you think this... word salad... is going to tell me who I am?"

"It's going to tell us where the money is," Stephan corrected. "And the leverage. Your grandfather was a paranoid genius. He hid his assets and his network behind a puzzle that only one person could solve."

He stood up and walked around the desk. I instinctively took a step back, hitting the edge of a bookshelf. He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of me, invading my personal space again.

"You," he said simply.

"I'm a medical student, Stephan. I solve crosswords on Sundays. I don't do... National Treasure stuff."

"You have the key," he murmured. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my throat.

I looked down. The necklace. The one he had fastened around my neck last night. It was a heavy, silver pendant with an intricate design—a sunburst with a hollow center.

"This?" I fingered the cold metal. "You gave this to me. You kept it."

"I kept it safe," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone. "Stand still."

He reached out. I flinched, but he didn't touch my skin. He grabbed the parchment from the desk with one hand and the plastic sheet with the other. Then, he held them up against my chest, right over the necklace.

"What are you doing?" I squeaked.

"Solving the puzzle," he muttered, his focus intense.

He pressed the parchment against my sternum, then overlaid the plastic sheet. Finally, he pressed the pendant against the paper. The raised design of the sunburst fit perfectly into a blank space on the parchment I hadn't noticed before.

Stephan leaned in, his face inches from mine. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at the text aligning through the holes in the plastic sheet.

"The necklace aligns the grid," he whispered, more to himself than me.

His breath fanned across my collarbone. I held my breath, my heart hammering against the paper he was holding against me. This was intimate in a twisted, clinical way. He was using me as a human easel, yet the heat coming off him was making my knees weak.

"Read it," I challenged, my voice shaky. "Before I pass out from lack of oxygen."

Stephan's eyes darted across the text revealed by the cipher.

"The first truth lies in the mouth of the Lion. Valencia. The Vault of Sant'Angelo."

He pulled back abruptly, the loss of his warmth leaving me shivering. He tossed the papers back onto the desk and ran a hand through his hair—the first sign of genuine stress I'd seen.

"Valencia," he cursed softly.

"It's here, in Spain, right?" I asked, rubbing my chest where the paper had been. "Why're you acting like it's somewhere far?"

"Damn it, Alina.  We are going to a war zone," he corrected, turning to face me. "Sant'Angelo isn't a bank, Alina. It's a fortress. And it's currently held by the one man who wants both of us dead."

"Let me guess," I quipped, though my stomach churned. "Marvinez?"

"Worse," Stephan said, his face hardening into granite. "The Lion refers to a specific associate of your grandfather. A man named Dante. If the clue points to him, it means the information isn't written down."

"So?"

"So, Dante has been missing for three days," Stephan said grimly.

Suddenly, a red light began flashing on the wall behind Stephan's desk. A silent alarm.

Stephan's head snapped toward the door. His nonchalance evaporated, replaced by the coiled tension of a predator.

"Get down," he commanded, drawing a gun from a holster beneath his jacket that I hadn't even noticed.

"What? Why?"

"Because," he said, moving toward me and shoving me behind the heavy oak desk, "The party didn't wait for us to go to Spain. He sent the welcoming committee here."

The door of the study exploded, the shockwave rattling the floorboards beneath my feet.

Stephan crouched beside me, checking the magazine of his weapon. He looked at me, a dark, terrifying smirk playing on his lips.

"Welcome to the family, Alina. Try not to die."