Despite the mild early summer temperatures, I snuggle into my thick knitted cardigan, hypnotized by the fire as its flames dance across my vision. The cool evening breeze is not the reason for my shivers; the cause is far less obvious. Even more so now that it's dissipating into smoke. The fire it feeds warms me against the icy insecurity it slyly planted within me.

Though innocent in appearance, carefully folded in its pristine envelope, nothing hinted at the diabolical words it concealed. The letter, now reduced to ashes, clings to life, its words surviving the blaze like a demon reborn from flames. Engraved in my memory, I cannot shake the promise of danger they represent.

With my eyes closed, each letter rearranges itself, forming the message. Incessantly, indelibly.

"Dear Mayina,

I write these words with a determination you can't imagine. The injustice you suffer burns deep within me. How dare they accuse you of murder—someone so pure, so innocent? The world is blind to your true nature, but I see everything.

Don't worry, May. I'm watching over you, even from afar. Those who did this to you will pay. I swear it on my life. The truth will come out, and I will ensure those who falsely accused you feel the suffering they inflicted on you. Nothing will stop me—not even the law.

You are my muse, my star in the night. They cannot steal you away from me. If the system fails to give you justice, I will take matters into my own hands. You have nothing to fear from me, but they must know that every action has its consequence. They will understand what it means to cross someone who will stop at nothing for love.

Stay strong, my dear May. I am always here, in the shadows, ready to act to protect you. And I promise that those who dared to harm you will bitterly regret it. We are meant to be together, and nothing and no one will prevent that.

With eternal devotion,
Your Devoted Admirer – G"

In achieving my dream, I never imagined I would face this kind of fan. And though singing is my passion, in moments like these, I wish I could go back and never have been known.

Disappear and become invisible.

The ringing of my phone pulls me from my restless sleep. My face buried in the pillow, I groan, desperately reaching for it. Once in hand, I answer without looking and press it to my ear.

— "Good morning, May. It's Eustasio. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I have the results from the tire analysis."

— "Okay, I'll be right there," I mumble.

— "No need, I'm outside your house."

— "See you in a bit," I reply sleepily, still with my head on the pillow and my eyes closed.

It takes me a moment to untangle myself from the sheets. Still groggy, my feet instinctively guide me to the front door, where Callegrio waits, his expression serious.

I gesture for him to come inside.

— "Let me call Andrea and Andy before we start. I want them here."

— "No problem," he says, leaning against the kitchen island.

I make the calls before offering him coffee, which we drink in silence.

— "Maître Filecci contacted me," he announces, breaking the quiet.

— "Ah yes, she was eager to meet you. You'll likely be a witness in this investigation since you were the last to have the murder weapon."

— "I swear I handed it over to my colleague at the evidence locker."

— "Did you give her the information she needed ?" I ask, ignoring his reply.

— "We arranged a meeting. That's all for now."

— "So, what did you find, Callegrio ?" Andy's voice suddenly pipes up from the living room. "May, you could've at least gotten dressed."

— "What? A T-shirt is enough. You're not the Queen of England."

— "Yeah, but we don't need to see the origin of the world either."

— "Don't worry, I'm wearing underwear," I grimace.

— "Can we get to why we're here ?" Andrea interrupts, arms crossed.

— "With pleasure," I say, settling into the couch. "Eustasio, tell us what you've got."

— "The analysis confirms the presence of two distinct vehicles: a motorcycle and a car. The motorcycle tires have a unique zigzag pattern, matching Pirelli Diablo Rosso III tires, often found on sports bikes. I did some digging at the local dealership, and they confirmed that this type of tire is commonly fitted on the MV Agusta Brutale 800 RR."

It only takes a moment for me to understand. My shoulders slump, and I stare at the floor.

— "Ezio's exact bike, the one that went off the cliff the night we moved."

— "But the car is even more significant."

Eustasio's words reignite a flicker of hope.

— "The tire tracks also have a distinctive pattern, but what's even more telling are the following details. The front tires are Michelin ZR 415, and the rear are VR 415. That's the signature of only two cars: the Ferrari 512 BB and the Testarossa."

Hanging on his every word, I wait for the revelation that never comes. My gaze searches for the clue I'm missing and finds it in Andrea's satisfied smile.

— "It's a car from Raphaël's collection," he reveals.

— "And where is it ?"

— "At his manor."

— "Damn, it's sealed off !" My frustration slips out.

— "It may still be under seal, but all the evidence has been collected. No one's working there anymore, so we can go as long as we're careful," Callegrio points out.

— "Then let's not waste any more time," I assert.

Wearing masks and gloves, we move like shadows toward the annex that holds our only hope. Ever-prepared, Andrea kept the pass to the Madini manor that Ezio had given him. This foresight spares us time and trouble, granting us direct access to this mausoleum of mechanical ghosts, preserved not between four planks, but beneath white tarps.

— "By any chance, do you know where it's parked ?" I ask.

— "Don't push it," Andrea replies, his gaze wandering.

Without another word, we set to work searching for our prize. After uncovering about twenty cars, Andy's high-pitched voice ricochets off the garage's metal walls.

— "Got it !"

We hurry over to join her. With its lights off, it still gleams in the mythical rossocorsa red.

— "Okay, so now what ?" Andy asks.

— "Let me handle this. Torrimone lent me some tools to take samples."

Under our watchful eyes, Callegrio sweeps the car with his swabs until he calls us over. We gather around, and under the halo of his headlamp, we see a faint blue trace.

— "What is it ?" I ask.

— "We'll find out soon enough," he replies, taking a sample.

After thoroughly inspecting the car, we leave as quickly as we arrived. Without tidying up, we head back, a wave of relief washing over us.

Sealed inside the recording studio, I've spent the last forty-eight hours working tirelessly on my songs, trying to clear my mind of the turmoil that weighs on my peace.

Strikingly absent, Enoro hasn't distracted me either. Despite wanting to strangle him every time I walk through the door, an irresistible urge to see him dominates my thoughts. A desire that remains unfulfilled, even as hope flares each time the studio door opens. But instead of Dottrece's arrogant silhouette, it's Andrea's that appears.

— "What are you doing here ?" I ask, frowning.

— "I had to come in person since your phone's off," he points out.

— "Ah, sorry. It helps me focus."

— "Cutting yourself off from the world isn't the solution, especially when we've got fires to put out."

— "Any news from Eustasio ?"

— "Yes, hurry. They're waiting for us... again."

I abandon my work and follow Andrea. A short engine roar later, we arrive at his apartment, where Andy, Callegrio, and a thick tension await us.

— "So, what do the tests show ?" I ask as soon as I cross the threshold.

— "Copper oxide," he reveals, hands in pockets, feet planted firmly.

— "And that means ?"

— "It's a biocide. An antifouling pigment—used to prevent the growth of marine organisms like algae and barnacles. It's typically found in boat hull paints, among other things."

— "Given the city's coastal location, that would make sense," I muse aloud.

— "There's only one way to be sure," Andrea announces.

Following our investigation, hearts pounding, Andy, Andrea, Amadeo, and I find ourselves standing before large metal doors. Unable to risk being seen with Callegrio, we've replaced him with the irritating primate.

With bolt cutters in hand, Amadeo cuts through the final barrier standing between us and the truth. The doors creak open, revealing a space that opens out onto the port. The raised hull of a ship obscures the horizon, providing the cover we need. Though the ambient silence is filled only with the sound of waves crashing against the breakwater, we are not alone. Opposite us, on the far shore, stand similar facilities. Caution is crucial.

On the dirt floor, we search like bloodhounds for any sign of hidden graves. After long minutes of aimless wandering, we accept the reality of having to dig at random. The guys head off to fetch shovels, and I wander around the building.

Under the ship's enormous hull, I suddenly feel as small as when gazing at the stars lost in the vastness of the cosmos. With my eyes raised, I don't watch where I'm stepping and trip over a bucket of oil, knocking it over.

— "Damn it !" I curse, landing on my side.

— "Back at it again, starfish ?" Andy teases.

I scowl in response. As I stand, something catches my eye.

— "Hey, Andy, look ! The oil isn't flowing normally. It's like it's draining into a crack."

— "Holy crap, you're right !"

Without hesitation, we frantically search for a handle, eventually finding it concealed near the oil spill.

Andy tries to lift it, but from her grimace, I can tell it's heavier than expected. I step in to help, and after several attempts, we manage to raise the trapdoor. We let it fall with a deafening crash. A cloud of dust rises, revealing Andrea and Amadeo as they return.

— "What the hell is that ?" Amadeo asks.

— "I think it's what we're looking for," Andrea answers before disappearing into the hole.

We follow without hesitation but not without trepidation. With darkness as our companion, Amadeo cuts through it with his flashlight. Beneath our widened eyes and hands clamped over our mouths, we see dozens of mounds of earth emitting an unbearable stench. Our stomachs churn, and it isn't long before the dry heaving begins. Andy rushes back to the surface, and the sound of her vomiting echoes down to us.

With my eyes closed, I focus on my breathing to suppress the nausea. Frozen by our own battles, we remain still for several minutes before moving. With my shirt collar pulled over my nose, I join the men in uncovering the graves they've begun to dig. With each shovel strike, the smell intensifies, forcing me to pause and focus to avoid being sick. Eyes wet, I push on until the final blow forces me to empty my stomach. Struggling to catch my breath, I head to the surface for fresh air.

Sitting on an overturned bucket, Andy cradles her head in her hands, her complexion pale as a sheet.

— "Hey, you okay ?"

— "Yeah, don't worry. I'll be fine as long as I don't go back down there."

— "You don't have to. We've got it," I reassure her.

She returns my smile, and I descend back into the pit of decay.

We continue to unearth the bodies at our own pace, each of us alternating between breaks, retching, and fresh air. After a stretch of time I can't measure, we finally find Emilia's corpse. Easily identifiable by her size and the ballerina dress she still wears, she is otherwise unrecognizable—little more than a skeleton now. Dried tendons and mummified skin cling to parts of her body, but nothing remains of her youth or beauty. Only the fracture in her skull reveals the tragic end of the little girl.

Paralyzed by emotion, I break free from my vegetative state when Andrea and Amadeo cover the small skeleton with a white sheet.

— "Come on, May, it's over. We'll bring her back to her mother, do what needs to be done, and then this will all be behind us," Andrea gently informs me.

We climb out and seal the cave of horrors behind us before setting off to meet the Matriarcone.