Chapter 159 (Adrian's POV)

Chapter 159 (Adrian's POV)
Thirty-seven pages of evidence inventory spread across my desk.


Each page annotated with different colored sticky notes—red for core evidence, yellow for supplementary materials, blue for items needing further verification.


Most were red. Good.


But those blue notes were like nails driven into my perfectionism.


Seventy percent odds.


For most people, already very high.


But I was accustomed to ninety or above—every step on solid ground, every variable controlled within acceptable range.


Seventy meant a thirty percent chance everything collapses.


And the consequences of collapse—


Can't think about it.


Thinking leads to hesitation. Hesitation leads to delay. Delay puts her in greater danger.


I peeled the blue note off page fourteen and replaced it with red.


This evidence chain could be completed from another angle—Giulia's financial records contained a corresponding transfer, timing matched.


Good. One fewer variable.


A knock at the door.


"Adrian!" Daniel's head poked through the gap. "Lunch gathering, coming?"


I glanced at the time—12:40.


"Busy."


"You've said 'busy' three days running." He pushed the door open, leaned against my bookshelf, arms crossed. "If you don't eat soon, next time I see you will be at your funeral."


Daniel Morrison. New York State Assembly colleague. One of the few who knew my family background and still chose to be friends.


"Fifteen minutes," I said.


"Half an hour," he corrected. "Already booked. Italian place, next street over. If you don't come, Richard will eat your portion too."




The restaurant was loud.


Tuesday noon in Manhattan—every decent restaurant packed with suits.


The clink of silverware, the gurgle of wine being poured, overlapping laughter and debate—all blending into a buzzing white noise.


I sat by the window, an untouched plate of risotto before me.


My mind was still turning over those files.


"Adrian?"


Daniel's hand waved in front of my face.


"Hey, come back to earth."


"Hm?" I looked at him, fork suspended mid-air.


Daniel and Richard were both watching me.


"Called you three times," Richard said around a breadstick. "Where'd your soul wander off to?"


"Sorry." I set down the fork. "Thinking about work."


"Work makes you look this bad?" Daniel raised an eyebrow. "You look like someone who hasn't slept in three days."


"Two," I said.


"…That's not something to be proud of."


Richard shook his head, stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth, and said mushily: "Forget it, forget his work. I've got something bugging me, want your opinions."


He swallowed, drank some water.


"My wife—you guys know, eight years younger than me—she's recently gotten into rock climbing. Not the indoor kind. Outdoor. Cliffs."


Eight years.


I'm thirty-two. She's only twenty-three—fate always loves these inverted jokes.


"And?" Daniel asked.


"I said it's dangerous, she got upset. Said I'm too controlling, said she's not a child." Richard rubbed his hair in frustration. "Should I give her freedom, or stand my ground?"


He turned to me.


"But someone with your personality probably doesn't have this problem, right? You've always respected others' choices, you'd never—"


"I do."


Richard froze.


Daniel looked up too.


I stared at the now-cold risotto, fingers unconsciously turning my water glass.


"Recently… there's been a tendency," I said. "I'm not sure how to handle it."


"What tendency?" Daniel set down his knife and fork, looking at me seriously.


I chose my words carefully.


"My girlfriend likes extreme sports," I said. "Rock climbing, skydiving, that sort of thing. Very dangerous."


Richard nodded vigorously: "Same as my wife!"


"Before, when she said she was going, my first reaction was 'okay, be safe.'"


I paused.


The water glass completed one rotation in my hand.


"But recently… she got hurt."


The image flashed again—gauze, blood, that pale face.


I set the glass down, fingers gripping the tablecloth's edge.


"After that, every time she says she's going to do those things, my first reaction became 'no.'"


Instinctive. Erupting from the deepest part of my chest.


"I know this isn't right," I said. "She's an adult. She has the right to make her own choices. I shouldn't—"


"But you can't control it." Daniel finished my sentence.


I was silent for a second.


"Right."


The table went quiet.


Even Richard stopped chewing.


Daniel looked at me, expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper—like re-evaluating someone he thought he knew well.


"Adrian." He set down his wine glass. "Do you know what your description just sounded like?"


"What?"


"Like someone discovering he's turning into the exact kind of control freak he despises most."


My fingers tightened on the tablecloth.


"You've always been the 'respect your partner's independence' type," Daniel continued. "That's one of your core values. But now you're finding yourself violating it—involuntarily."


He looked at me.


"That means this person has become more important to you than your own values."


I didn't answer.


Because he was too accurate.


"But you need to think clearly about one thing," he said. "Does she need a partner walking beside her—or another cage?"


Cage.


If I became another cage—


Even one built from "love" and "protection"—


She would still suffocate.


"I know," I said, voice lighter than intended.


Daniel patted my shoulder.


"The fact that you're aware of this problem means you won't actually become that person," he said. "But between awareness and action, there's still a long road."


"Take it slow." He smiled. "At least your girlfriend hasn't dumped you yet."


I managed a weak tug at the corner of my mouth.




Two p.m. Back at the office.


I closed the door, picked up my phone, and dialed.


Four rings.


"Adrian Marino." The voice on the other end carried that languid quality unique to East Coast elites. "Long time."


"James," I said. "I need a favor."


"A state senator's favor—not sure I can handle that."


"It's not political." I paused. "It's a criminal investigation."


A second of silence.


"Go on."


"I have Ferrante family financial records spanning nearly a decade. Direct evidence for three unsolved homicides. And confirmed identities of at least two participants."


Silence on the other end.


A long time.


"Adrian." James's voice changed—the languidness vanished, replaced by the focused intensity of a hunter catching the scent of blood. "You're talking about Salvatore Ferrante?"


"Yes."


"Where the fuck did you get this?"


"You don't need to know the source," I said. "You only need to know—this material withstands courtroom scrutiny. I need you to transfer the case to the U.S. Attorney's office within one week."


"One week?" His voice pitched up. "Adrian, the federal investigation initiation process—"


"I know the process." I cut him off. "But I need you to use your channels to accelerate it. File under 'imminent threat' for the expedited track."


"Imminent threat?"


He was silent even longer.


"Why the rush?" he finally asked.


"Because if they catch on, the evidence gets destroyed," I said. "And someone—will get hurt."


That "someone" was too vague.


But James understood.


He sighed.


"Adrian, you're gambling with your political career."


"I know."


"Worth it?"


"Worth it."


The sound of his fingers tapping a desk came through.


"Thank you."


"Don't thank me." His tone returned to business-as-usual. "After all, you rarely ask for favors."


After triple-checking for omissions, I finally sent the email.


I rubbed my aching eyes and picked up my phone.


The wallpaper was a photo of Elena.


That day by the lake—I'd snuck the shot. She faced away from the camera, hair blown by the wind, deep brown strands catching golden light in the sun.


But what surfaced in my mind was something else.


In the Palermo hospital corridor, the way Luca stood outside the ICU.


That man with his back to me, shoulders collapsed, hands clasped against his forehead, entire body shaking.


I'd never seen him like that.


Anger, arrogance, total control—all the Luca Marino traits I knew had vanished in that moment.


Only a man remained, watching the woman he loved lying in a hospital bed, powerless.


And the way that man looked at her—


Identical to the way I looked at her myself.


His feelings for Elena—clumsy, twisted, scarred with too much damage—but genuinely real.


So Elena's ultimate choice wouldn't be "who's better."


It would be "who's right."


And "right"—the definition of that word belonged entirely to her.


I wasn't certain the answer was me.


My throat suddenly tightened.


A never-before-felt, near-panicked unease surged from my stomach, crawling up my spine to the back of my neck, making my fingertips go slightly numb.


I was afraid. Suddenly I desperately wanted to hear her voice.


Anything would do.


Scolding Marcus for overwatering the pothos. Complaining about Chicago's cold wind. Even just her sleepy "mm?" when she picked up.


I pressed dial.


Ring—ring—


Halfway through the second ring, she answered.


"Adrian?"


Her tone was light as always.


I wanted to say something, but no sound came out.


The deafening thunder of my own heartbeat made me realize with despair—I could never let go again.