The envelope sat untouched on the table between them.
Ayla hadn't said much since it arrived—hand-delivered by a clueless errand boy. No name. Just her own written in tight cursive across the front.
Leon's eyes stayed on it like it might bite her.
"He's not hiding anymore," Ayla whispered.
"No," Leon said. "He wants to be seen."
She looked at him then—really looked. "What's your real name, Leon?"
He didn't answer right away.
Most people only knew Leon Romano. The name on contracts. The name whispered in dark rooms and smoked-out back offices. It was the name that made people fear him.
But Ayla?
She didn't ask for the mask.
"Moretti," he said finally. "Leon Moretti."
Her lips parted slightly, absorbing that truth. "Romano is the one they fear."
"They need to," he said. "Romano built the empire. Moretti buried the bodies."
⸻
Later that night, Ayla sat alone, staring at the envelope again.
She opened it.
Inside was a single folded sheet. No greeting. No threat.
Just four words, written in Daniel's familiar script:
"Does he know you?"
Her pulse spiked.
She knew exactly what Daniel was doing. Digging under her skin. Planting doubt. Turning the spotlight.
She grabbed the note and burned it in the sink, watching every word curl to ash.
⸻
Elsewhere, in a quiet corner of the city, Daniel adjusted his cufflinks and sipped a glass of wine. He'd sent the letter hours ago, but he didn't need to follow up.
She would tell him.
One way or another, she would tell Leon Moretti exactly who she used to be.
And when she did?
Everything would unravel.