Chapter Five: Looks Like Its Time

I was curled up on my couch running my hand in shadow's fur, 

When the sharp chime of my laptop echoed in the quiet of my studio, my cat stretched lazily on the couch while my heart hammered against my ribs.

“Congratulations. You have been selected for the next stage of employment at Moretti Global Holdings, you are to report to the desk on Monday, 9:00am.” 

For a second, I just stared. Then I read it again. And again. My pulse quickened, not with excitement but with satisfaction that everything's going smoothly. This was it. The door had opened.

I leaned back in my chair, a slow exhale leaving my lips. Camille Martins had just secured her way into Leonardo Moretti’s company. And through him… to Roberto. The name that pulsed at the center of every plan I’d written, every sleepless night, every whispered promise to the dead.

“Looks like it’s time, Shadow, ” I murmured, glancing at my cat. He blinked at me, unbothered, as if unaware his owner was plotting to walk into the lion’s den.

The morning light painted thin streaks across my wall. the same wall where every photograph of my targets hung, nailed like trophies. Seven faces stared back at me, soulless and still. I imagined them whispering from their graves, urging me forward. I stood, crossed the room, and let my fingertips graze the newest one, the man I’d taken three nights ago. Fresh ink on his obituary. Fresh blood on my hands.

And then my gaze shifted lower, to the photo waiting patiently beneath them all. Roberto Moretti. His cold smile frozen in print, eyes that had overseen the death of my family. The next name. The final name.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. The Morettis were bringing me into their home ground, granting me the perfect vantage point.

Still, caution pulled at me like a shadow. This was no ordinary family. Power ran through their veins like poison, and one wrong move could unravel years of preparation.

I closed the email and pulled out the neatly stacked folder of Camille Martins’ forged life. Degrees. References. Bank statements. All pristine. All untraceable. I’d used this identity for years to bring down others. Now, it was about to face its greatest test. It was Saturday evening, which meant I had less than 48 hours to turn myself into the perfect candidate with the perfect disguise. 

By the time the clock struck nine, I had already chosen my outfit for the company’s first impression, professional, polished, understated. I didn’t need to shop for anything, this wasn’t a sloppy plan, I have been working on how I'll bring them all down since that night. Camille needed to look competent, not threatening. Just another eager secretary desperate for stability.

But underneath, Eva Cross waited. Watching. Calculating. Counting down to the moment when Roberto Moretti’s empire would crumble.

I poured myself a cup of black coffee and took a long sip, staring out the window at the city. Every skyscraper shimmered with false promises, every honking car oblivious to the war moving in silence beneath the streets.

“Soon,” I whispered, almost to myself, almost to the ghosts.

I shut down the burner account I’d used for the application, clearing traces, then pulled out my laptop. If I was going to walk into the lion’s den, I needed to know exactly which lion I was dealing with.

“Leonardo Moretti,” I whispered, typing his name into the search bar.

The screen filled instantly, business magazines, financial blogs, glossy photographs of him at galas, shaking hands with world leaders, standing beside his father at conferences. He looked like a man carved out of marble, sharp suit, sharper jawline, and eyes that never softened, no matter how polished the setting.

Article after article painted the same picture: young, brilliant, ruthless. The son who had turned Moretti Global Holdings into a more formidable empire than it had been in decades. Analysts praised his ability to make decisions others considered cutthroat, but investors adored him for it. He was described as a visionary, a strategist, a man who never lost.

I switched tabs, digging deeper. Blogs, online forums, whispers from those who thought they understood the underworld. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous. Some swore he could break a man with a single look; others claimed he was incapable of mercy.

No scandals. No weaknesses. Nothing but power wrapped in silence.

My eyes lingered on a photo of him at a press event, his expression unreadable, shoulders squared like he carried the weight of the entire empire without flinching. Something about the way he held himself made my chest tighten. This was a man no one could manipulated easily.

Good. That only made it more interesting.

Hours passed. Coffee cups stacked by my side. Every piece of information I found, I memorized, rehearsing the perfect way to appear useful but invisible. If I was going to work under Leonardo Moretti, I needed to be both an asset and a shadow.

By Sunday afternoon, I closed the laptop, I need to get my sleep so I can be be ready for what I'm getting myself into, exhaustion pressing into my bones, but adrenaline buzzing just beneath it. My reflection in the window stared back at me tired, but determined.

“Leonardo Moretti,” I said again, tasting the name like a vow, like a challenge. “You won’t see me coming.”