Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen
The darkness returned, but this time, it wasn't sweet. It was cold and sharp, and it smelled of the future.
When I woke up again, the hum of the engine had changed. It was higher, a whining sound that meant we were in the air. I was in a plush leather seat, my hands still cuffed, but in front of me instead of to a cot.
I looked out the window. Below us, the lights of a city stretched out like a carpet of jewels. It wasn't Palermo. The buildings were too tall, the neon signs too bright.
"Welcome to Tokyo," Kaito said from the seat across from me. He was drinking a glass of clear liquid. Water or vodka, I couldn't tell.
I looked at my hands. The bullet-casing ring was still there. I twisted it, the metal cool against my skin.
"Where is my father?" I asked.
"If he is wise, he is hiding," Kaito said. "If he is foolish, he is on his way here. Either way, you are the bait now. The Flower has returned to the garden."
He stood up and walked to the front of the plane.
I leaned my head against the window, watching the neon lights of Tokyo pulse like a heartbeat. I was thousands of miles from the Sicilian cliffs. I was a world away from the man who called me his wife.
But I could still feel the phantom pressure of Matteo’s thumb on my neck. I could still hear his voice telling me I was his.
I looked at the ring again.
Matteo had told me that everything in his world was either a trophy or a weapon.
I wasn't a trophy anymore. And I was tired of being the debt.
If my mother was the bridge, and my father was the ghost, then I would be the fire that burned the bridge down.
The plane began its descent.
I closed my eyes and whispered a name I shouldn't have known.
"Matteo."
Somewhere, across the ocean, I hoped he was listening. I hoped he was alive. Not because I loved him, but because I wanted him to see what I was about to do to the people who thought they could own the flame.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a jar.
The door opened, and a blast of humid, city air rushed in. It smelled of rain, exhaust, and something sweet, cherry blossoms.
Kaito grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. "Walk. And remember, Lila. In Tokyo, the walls have ears and the shadows have teeth."
"I’m used to shadows," I said, stepping out onto the stairs.
A line of black sedans was waiting on the runway. Men in sharp suits stood beside them, bowing as we approached. It was a display of power that made the Sicilian council look like children playing in a sandbox.
We were driven through the heart of the city, the neon signs blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. We stopped at a massive skyscraper that looked like it was made of obsidian and glass. The sign at the top was a stylized flower, the same one from the locket.
We were taken to the top floor, to a room that overlooked the entire city. The floor was covered in white tatami mats, and the walls were paper screens painted with scenes of ancient wars.
In the center of the room, an old man sat at a low table. He was wearing a traditional kimono, his face a map of wrinkles and scars. He looked like he was a hundred years old, but his eyes were sharp and bright, like two pieces of polished flint.
"Grandfather," Kaito said, bowing low.
The old man looked at me. He didn't speak for a long time. He just watched me, his gaze traveling over my face, my hair, the dress I was still wearing.
"She has her mother’s eyes," the old man said, his voice a dry rasp. "But her father’s chin. A dangerous combination."
"She is the one," Kaito said.
"We shall see." The old man gestured for me to sit. "Lila Moreno. Or should I say, Lila Russo?"
"I’m just Lila," I said, sitting cross-legged on the mat. I didn't bow. I didn't look away.
The old man chuckled. "Spoken like a girl who has spent too much time with Italians. They think volume is the same as power. Here, we know that the loudest voice is often the first one to be cut out."
He reached out and tapped a small wooden box on the table.
"Inside this box is a code," he said. "A code that your mother entrusted to the Russos for safekeeping. They were supposed to return it when you came of age. But they got greedy. They thought the flame belonged to them."
"Matteo said my father stole the money," I said.
"Your father stole the access," the old man corrected. "The three million was a pittance. A distraction. He used the Russo bank to launder the digital keys, and then he vanished. He left you with Matteo because he knew the Russos would never kill the daughter of the woman who made them rich."
"He used me as a shield," I whispered, the weight of the betrayal feeling like a physical blow.
"He used you as a timer," the old man said. "He knew that eventually, the Russos would run out of patience. He knew that eventually, you would lead us to him."
He opened the box. Inside was a small, silver thumb drive.
"This is the lock," he said. "And you, Lila, are the key."
He looked at Kaito. "Take her to the chamber. Begin the extraction."
"Extraction?" I asked, my heart hammering. "What do you mean?"
Kaito grabbed my arm, his grip tighter than before. "The code isn't in your mind, Lila. It’s in your DNA. Your mother had a bio-luminescent tag embedded in her bone marrow. She passed it to you in the womb. We don't need your memories. We just need your blood."
I fought him then, but the room was full of men. They pinned me down on the tatami mats, my screams muffled by a gloved hand.
I felt a needle sink into my neck, but it wasn't a sedative this time. It was a cold, burning sensation that felt like ice water being pumped into my veins.
"The flame is returning to the source," the old man said, his voice sounding distant.
As the pain intensified, I saw a vision.
I saw a red dress burning in a Sicilian fireplace.
I saw a man with a scar on his chest, standing on a cliff, looking at the horizon.
And I saw a phone, glowing in the dark.
“The flame spreads. Tokyo next?”
The message wasn't for Matteo. It wasn't for my father.
It was a warning for me.
And I was too late to stop the burn.
I let out one last, ragged breath before the world turned white.
"Matteo..." I whispered into the void. "Find me."
Across the world, in a ruined villa in Sicily, a man with blood on his face picked up a charred satellite phone from the dirt. He saw the last signal, a GPS ping from the middle of Tokyo.
He looked at his men, the ones who had survived the massacre.
"Pack the bags," Matteo Russo growled, his voice a promise of death. "We’re going to Japan."
The debt was no longer about money, it was about the woman they stole from his bed and Matteo Russo didn't like people touching his things.