Chapter 14 - The Ghost of Sophia
Elena turned to Matteo, her voice barely a whisper against the howling coastal wind. "Matteo... who is that?"
Matteo’s binoculars slipped from his fingers, clattering against the concrete floor. The man who had faced down an army of hitmen without flinching looked as though he had been struck through the heart by a silver spear. His skin went dead white; his breathing ceased entirely.
"Sophia," he breathed, the name torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. "It's impossible. I buried her. I held her hand in the morgue."
"Look at her, Matteo," Elena urged gently, stepping closer and touching his drenched arm. "Is it really her?"
Down on the highway, the woman looked directly toward the lighthouse beacon. She raised a small hand-held flare, striking it against the pavement. Crimson smoke erupted, blooming into the gray morning mist—a signal known only to the innermost Rossi echelon.
Mia stirred against Elena’s chest, rubbing her tired eyes. She looked out through the glass, her tiny fingers pointing toward the highway. "Mama?" the toddler murmured, her voice filled with innocent wonder. "Mama home?"
The single word shattered Matteo's paralysis. A terrifying storm of grief, rage, and suspicion flashed across his sharp features. "Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice trembling for the first time since this nightmare began.
They descended the exterior emergency staircase of the lighthouse, slipping through the wet brambles and cutting through the dense pine grove that separated the cliffs from the coastal road. Every step felt like walking toward an execution ground.
When they broke through the tree line onto the gravel shoulder, the woman was waiting, leaning against the hood of the black sedan. The rain had plastered her dark hair to her high cheekbones, but her emerald eyes were cold, sharp, and entirely devoid of the warmth seen in the family portraits.
"You look well, Matteo," the woman said, her voice silky, rich, and distinctly unaccented. "A little worse for wear, but still breathing."
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Matteo did not lower his weapon. "Who are you?" he growled, the barrel pointed dead center at her heart. "Sophia had a sister she never spoke of, or are you another one of Volkov’s twisted games?"
The woman smiled, a slow, cruel curving of red lips. "You always were too romantic to survive this life, Matteo. Sophia didn't die in that hit-and-run. Sophia orchestrated it."
