Happy new year! 

First chapter of 2025 !

Antonio's POV:

The video haunted me like a ghost, an unrelenting specter of doubt and rage that consumed every waking moment. I couldn't look away from it. Over and over, I replayed the grainy footage, searching for something I had missed, some clue that could confirm or deny the horrors it claimed to show. Isabella's face, pale and streaked with tears, was seared into my mind. Her bound wrists, the knife glinting in the dim light, the blood pooling on the floor—each detail was a dagger twisting deeper into my chest.

And yet, something didn't feel right. The tape felt off in a way I couldn't put into words. There was a deliberate nature to the way it had been shot, as though it wasn't simply meant to document a crime but to send a message. I had dealt with enough enemies to know that the obvious wasn't always the truth. Still, the idea that Isabella could be gone... it was a truth I couldn't allow myself to believe.

The grainy screen flickered in front of me as I played the video for what felt like the hundredth time, my eyes scanning every frame with ruthless precision. The muted colors, the shaky camera, the angle that conveniently obscured the killer's face—it was all meticulously crafted to invoke despair. The knife plunging into Isabella's chest, her stillness afterward, the final cut to black. It all screamed of manipulation.

But tonight, I noticed something new.

As the killer stepped into the light, their shadow fell across the floor, a faint distortion that seemed out of place. It was subtle, almost invisible, but something about the shadow caught my attention. I leaned closer, my pulse quickening. There was something in the shadow—an outline, faint markings etched into the floor.

"Pause it," I barked to Enzo, who had been silently standing behind me as I worked.

He froze the frame, the shadow lingering on the screen. I squinted, my heart racing as I made out faint symbols beneath the killer's feet. They were ancient, angular, barely visible against the grainy footage. I reached for my laptop, quickly zooming in on the image.

"What the hell is that?" Enzo muttered, leaning over my shoulder.

"I don't know," I replied, my voice tight. "But I'm going to find out."

The markings weren't random. They were deliberate, placed there as if to be discovered by someone who knew where to look. My mind raced as I tried to make sense of them. They looked like they belonged to an ancient script, something I had seen before in the books of an old associate who specialized in deciphering forgotten languages.

The memory sparked something in me. I grabbed my phone, quickly scrolling through my contacts until I found the name I was looking for.

Hours later, I was in the dimly lit library of a man named Fabrizio, a reclusive scholar who owed me more favors than he cared to admit. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, the dim light casting long shadows across the room.

Fabrizio stared at the still image on my laptop, his brows furrowing as he traced the symbols with his finger. "This is... interesting," he murmured.

"What does it say?" I demanded, my patience wearing thin.

He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "It's written in Etruscan. A very old dialect. Not many people can read this, but fortunately for you, I happen to be one of them."

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to remain calm. "And what does it say, Fabrizio?"

He glanced at me, his face unreadable. "It's a single sentence. 

'Occidit Sofia Isabella.'"

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

"Sofia killed Isabella," I translated aloud, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Fabrizio nodded. "That's correct. Whoever made this tape wanted you to see this. They wanted you to know."

The room spun around me as the words sank in. Sofia. I had suspected her from the start, but this... this was confirmation. She had killed Isabella. The woman I had once trusted, who had stood beside me as an ally, had taken the one person who meant everything to me.

Rage coursed through me, a white-hot fury that threatened to consume every rational thought. I slammed my fist onto the desk, the sound echoing through the room.

"Get out," I growled at Fabrizio.

He hesitated, but the look in my eyes must have told him I wasn't in the mood to argue. Without another word, he gathered his things and left, leaving me alone with the screen and the truth it had revealed.

I returned to the video, my anger burning brighter with each passing second. But as I stared at the frozen frame, a thought crept into my mind—one I couldn't ignore.

Why leave a message? Why go to such lengths to ensure I saw it? If Sofia had truly killed Isabella, wouldn't she want to hide it? The doubts clawed at me, but I pushed them aside.

I pressed play, the footage resuming its grim tale. The figure moved with deliberate precision, stepping closer to Isabella, the knife glinting in their hand. I watched as they whispered something inaudible to her, their movements smooth and calculated.

And then it happened. The knife plunged downward, the sound of the blade meeting flesh muted but unmistakable. Isabella's body went limp, her head slumping forward as blood pooled beneath her.

The figure stepped back, their shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. They stood there for a moment, staring at her lifeless form, before turning and walking out of frame.

The screen went black.

I sat back in my chair, my hands trembling with rage and grief. The image of Isabella's still form was burned into my mind, a vision I couldn't escape. Sofia had done this. She had killed her, and now she was taunting me with the evidence.

But something still didn't sit right. The tape felt too perfect, too convenient. My instincts screamed that there was more to this than what I was seeing.

"Sofia," I muttered, her name a curse on my lips.

I would find her. I would make her pay for what she had done. But first, I needed to be sure. I needed to uncover the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

Because if there was even the slightest chance that Isabella was still alive, I wouldn't stop until I brought her back.

The drive back to the estate was a blur, my mind consumed by a single, burning thought: Sofia.

She had lied to me, manipulated me, and now, she had killed Isabella—or so the tape claimed. The rage coursing through my veins was a fire that threatened to consume me, but beneath it, there was something darker.

I wanted answers.

I wanted her to suffer.

When I stormed into the estate, the weight of the night pressing down on me, Enzo was already waiting. His expression shifted when he saw my face—he knew better than to ask questions.

"Sofia," I barked. "Bring her here. Now."

Enzo hesitated for only a second before nodding. "We picked her up earlier, just like you asked. She's in the west wing, locked up in one of the spare rooms."

I turned sharply, heading down the hallway without waiting for him to follow. My steps echoed against the stone walls, each one a drumbeat of fury. By the time I reached the room, my heart was pounding, my fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles ached.

Enzo stood by the door, his hand on the handle. "Antonio," he said cautiously, his voice low. "Are you sure about this?"

I shot him a glare that silenced any further objections. "Open it."

The door swung open, revealing a stark, dimly lit room. Sofia sat in the center of it, her hands bound to the back of a chair, her face half-hidden in the shadows. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn in places, but her posture was as defiant as ever.

When she looked up and saw me, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Antonio," she said smoothly, her voice dripping with mockery. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I hope you're not here to waste my time with accusations again."

Her tone was like gasoline on the fire already burning inside me. I stepped into the room, shutting the door behind me, and crossed the space between us in a matter of seconds. My hand shot out, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at me.

"Enough," I growled. "I've seen the tape. I know what you did."

Her smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of something that might have been fear. "Tape?" she repeated, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

My grip tightened, and she winced, the defiance in her eyes wavering. "Don't lie to me," I hissed. "I saw you kill her. Isabella. You stabbed her, you left her to bleed out—and you had the audacity to send me the evidence."

For a moment, her mask slipped. I saw panic flash across her face, but she quickly recovered, her lips curling into a venomous smile. "You think I killed Isabella?" she said, her voice low and mocking. "That's adorable, Antonio. Truly."

I let go of her chin, pacing in front of her like a predator circling its prey. "Don't test me, Sofia," I said, my voice cold and deadly. "You've already betrayed me more times than I can count. But this? This is unforgivable."

She laughed softly, the sound hollow and bitter. "You don't understand, do you? You think you're so clever, so in control, but you don't see the bigger picture. Isabella was a distraction, Antonio. A weakness. I did what needed to be done."

The words hit me like a blow, the sheer audacity of her admission fueling my fury. I turned on her, grabbing the back of the chair and leaning in close. "You think you've won?" I snarled. "You think this is over?"

She met my gaze, her eyes glinting with malice. "It's already over," she said. "You just don't realize it yet."

The first blow came before I even realized what I was doing. My fist connected with the arm of the chair, splintering the wood and sending a sharp crack echoing through the room. Sofia flinched but quickly recovered, her smirk returning as if to mock my restraint.

"I can't decide if you're angry because of Isabella," she said, her voice soft and taunting, "or because you know, deep down, that I was right."

I straightened, my hands trembling as I fought to rein in the storm inside me. "You're going to tell me everything," I said, my voice low and controlled. "Who helped you. Why you did it. And where the rest of that tape came from."

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "And if I don't?"

I leaned closer, my face inches from hers. "Then I'll make you wish you had," I said, my voice a growl.

For the first time, genuine fear flickered in her eyes. But it wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed the truth.

"Start talking," I said, my voice sharp.

Sofia hesitated, her defiance cracking under the weight of my fury. "Fine," she said finally, her tone losing some of its edge. "But you won't like what you hear."

As she began to speak, weaving a story of lies and half-truths, I listened carefully, my instincts on high alert. Every word she spoke felt like a test, a puzzle I needed to solve.

But the more she talked, the more certain I became of one thing.

Sofia knew more than she was letting on. And I was going to drag the truth out of her, no matter what it took.

For Isabella.