Chapter 68 MALTA

Chapter 68 MALTA

Malta smelled like salt, fuel, and secrets.
The kind of place where the sea swallowed bodies without questions and the sun burned too bright for anyone to notice the blood beneath the water.
Our plane landed under a private charter manifest that didn’t exist. No names. No passports that could be traced. Matteo had burned every digital breadcrumb before we touched down, but I knew better than to believe it made us invisible.
It only made us harder to follow.
The safehouse sat carved into limestone cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean, half-villa, half-bunker. From the outside it looked like an abandoned coastal estate—crumbling walls, faded white stone, shuttered windows bleached by years of sun.
Inside, it was a fortress.
Steel-reinforced doors disguised as antique wood. Bullet-resistant glass tinted to look like age-stained panes. Hallways that bent deliberately to break lines of sight. Panic rooms hidden behind false walls.
Callum ran ahead the moment we entered, marveling at the echo of his footsteps.
“Is this a castle?” he asked.
I forced a smile. “Something like that.”
Matteo didn’t answer. He was already scanning, listening, memorizing.
This place wasn’t new to him.
Which meant it held ghosts.
By nightfall, the sea below the cliffs was ink-black and restless.
I stood on the terrace wrapped in a shawl I hadn’t realized I’d grabbed, staring down at the waves smashing against stone. Every crash felt like a countdown.
Matteo joined me silently.
“You were here before,” I said.
“Yes.”
“With my father.”
“Yes.”
I turned to him. “Doing what?”
His jaw tightened. “Avoiding wars we couldn’t win.”
I swallowed. “And did you?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “We survived them.”
That wasn’t comforting.
The first sign that Malta wasn’t as quiet as it looked came just after midnight.
The power flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then stabilized.
I sat upright in bed instantly, Callum stirring beside me.
Matteo was already on his feet, gun in hand.
“Stay here,” he whispered.
I ignored him.
By the time we reached the surveillance room, Dante and Louis were already there, eyes locked on the screens.
“What is it?” I asked.
Dante zoomed in on a thermal feed.
Three heat signatures.
In the water.
Swimming.
My blood ran cold.
“They’re testing the cliff,” Louis said. “Seeing if the current carries sound.”
“They’re not amateurs,” Matteo muttered.
“No,” Dante agreed. “They’re patient.”
The swimmers turned back before reaching the rocks.
A probe.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Callum pressed into my side. “Momma?”
I knelt in front of him, forcing my fear down. “It’s okay, baby. Just some lights.”
He didn’t look convinced.
Neither was I.
The attempt came two days later.
Broad daylight.
Because that’s how confident they were.
I was in the kitchen with Callum, teaching him how to crack eggs without shattering the shell, when the glass exploded.
Not inward.
Outward.
A sonic breach.
The pressure hit before the sound, knocking me off my feet as alarms screamed to life.
“CALLUM!” I shouted.
Hands grabbed him before I could.
Matteo.
He shielded our son with his body as the room filled with smoke and shouting.
“Move!” Dante roared.
Gunfire erupted in the courtyard.
Not random.
Precise.
Professional.
I was dragged down a corridor, Callum screaming now, his cries cutting straight through me.
“Momma!” he sobbed.
“I’m here!” I shouted back. “I’m here!”
We were shoved into the panic room as the door slammed shut with a hydraulic hiss.
Darkness.
Then red emergency lights.
Callum was shaking violently in my arms.
“They’re trying to take me,” he whispered.
My heart shattered.
“No,” I said fiercely. “They’re not.”
Outside, explosions rocked the walls.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then silence.
A code knocked on the door.
Three short.
Two long.
Matteo.
The door opened.
He was bleeding from his shoulder, blood soaking his shirt—but he was standing.
“They’re gone,” he said. “For now.”
“How many?” I asked hoarsely.
“Four confirmed dead,” Dante said grimly. “Two escaped into the water.”
Matteo’s gaze dropped to Callum.
Something in his expression changed.
Enough.
That night, Callum didn’t sleep.
Neither did we.
He sat between us, knees tucked to his chest.
“Why do bad men want me?” he asked quietly.
The question landed like a blade.
I opened my mouth.
Matteo beat me to it.
“Because of me,” he said.
I turned sharply. “Matteo—”
“No,” he said gently. “He deserves the truth.”
Callum looked up at him. “Are you a bad man?”
Matteo didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
My breath caught.
“But I’m trying to be better,” he continued. “And I would die before I let anyone hurt you.”
Callum studied him seriously.
Then asked the question I’d been dreading for years.
“Are you my dad?”
Silence.
The kind that changes lives.
Matteo looked at me.
I nodded.
“Yes,” I whispered.
His world tilted.
Callum stared at Matteo, searching his face.
“You’re… my real dad?”
Matteo knelt in front of him. “Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you come?” Callum asked softly.
Matteo’s voice broke. “Because I didn’t know.”
Callum thought about that.
Then, slowly—
He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Matteo’s neck.
Matteo froze.
Then held him like something sacred.
“I don’t want them to take you,” Callum whispered.
“They won’t,” Matteo promised. “I swear it.”
I watched them, tears slipping silently down my face.
Because now—
This wasn’t just about survival.
It was about a boy who knew the truth.
And men who would kill to exploit it.