Trusting Him Was A Mistake

~ Alina’s POV

Before I could make my move, the guy vanished, and no matter how much I looked around, he was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging it off, I got back into my car and drove off, a thousand questions spiralling in my mind, waiting for answers.

~ The Next Day

The moment I stepped into the archive building the next morning, something felt… wrong. It wasn’t loud or obvious, not something I could point at and explain, but it was there, settling deep in my chest like a quiet warning I couldn’t ignore. I tightened my grip on my bag and walked forward anyway, my heels echoing faintly against the marble floor as I tried to steady my breathing.

“You’re overthinking,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to focus on the routine, on the familiarity of this place that had always felt like a sanctuary to me before. But the second I turned toward my workstation, my steps came to an abrupt halt, and the breath I had been trying so hard to control slipped right out of me.

That guy was already there. He leaned casually against my desk, as if he had every right to be there, as if he belonged in a space that required layers of authorization just to enter. The same man from last night. The same silhouette that had stood near my car, unmoving, watching.

My body went still as my mind struggled to catch up, my fingers curling slightly around the strap of my bag as I forced myself to take a step forward. He didn’t move immediately. Instead, he watched me, calm and composed in a way that made something cold settle beneath my skin. “Good morning, Alina,” he said smoothly, pushing himself off the desk as if this were a normal interaction, as if we weren’t standing in the middle of something I didn’t yet understand.

My heart skipped. “How do you know my name?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care enough to soften it.

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know a lot of things,” he replied, and something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten.

I placed my bag on the desk slowly, refusing to look away from him. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “This area is restricted.”

“So is accessing sealed archives without authorization,” he answered just as calmly, and the words hit exactly where they were meant to.

For a second, my fingers stilled against the surface of the desk, but I forced myself to recover quickly, turning slightly as I powered on my system. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice controlled, even if my pulse had started to race.

He let out a quiet breath, almost amused. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “You just happened to remove security protocols, access the Russo archive, and walk out with information that doesn’t belong to you.”

I turned back to face him slowly, my expression tightening despite my efforts to remain composed. “If you’re accusing me of something, you should bring proof,” I replied, lifting my chin just enough to show I wasn’t backing down.

“I don’t need proof,” he said, stepping a little closer, not enough to invade my space, but enough to make his presence feel deliberate. “I need you to stop.”

The simplicity of the statement made it heavier. “Stop what?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Doing my job?”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp, observant, as if he was measuring something beneath the surface. “Let’s not pretend,” he said quietly. “You’re not just doing your job anymore.”

“And so what if I’m not?” I challenged, even though a part of me knew I should be more careful. “What exactly is it to you?”

There was a brief pause before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice carried a different weight. “My name is Riccardo Valente.”

The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it made it feel like it should. “And?” I asked, unimpressed on the surface, even if my instincts were telling me otherwise.

“I work with people who prefer their histories untouched,” he said.

I let out a quiet breath, shaking my head slightly. “That sounds like a polite way of saying you cover things up.”

For a split second, something flickered in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place, before it disappeared just as quickly. “Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like you understand more than you should.”

“I understand enough,” I replied, my voice tightening despite myself. “Records are being altered. Identities are being rewritten. That’s not preserving history, that’s manipulating it.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, and I could feel the shift in the air between us. “You shouldn’t have noticed that,” he said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done such a poor job hiding it,” I shot back before I could stop myself, the words slipping out with more bite than I intended.

Silence stretched between us after that, heavy and tense, and for a moment, I wondered if I had pushed too far. But then he exhaled softly, shaking his head just slightly. “You’re not afraid,” he observed.

“I am,” I admitted, surprising even myself. “I’m just not willing to walk away.”

Something in his eyes shifted at that, something deeper, harder to read. “People who don’t walk away,” he said quietly, “usually don’t get the choice later.”

A shiver ran down my spine, but I refused to let it show. “Is that a threat?” I asked.

“No,” he replied calmly. “It’s a fact.”

I swallowed, steadying myself. “Then maybe you should be clearer,” I said. “Because right now, all I see is someone trying to scare me into ignoring something important.”

“That ‘something important,’” he said, stepping back slightly this time, “is not what you think it is.”

“Then explain it,” I challenged immediately.

“I’m not here to explain,” he said. “I’m here to warn you.”

“About what?”

“About continuing this,” he answered. “About digging into things that were buried for a reason.”

“My parents are in those files,” I said before I could stop myself, the words slipping out before I had time to think. The moment they did, I felt it, that sharp twist of regret, but it was too late to take them back.

He didn’t react immediately, which somehow made it worse. When he finally did speak, his voice was calm, almost too calm. “I know,” he said.

My breath hitched. “What?”

“I know about Elena Moretti,” he continued. “And Luca Moretti.”

My chest tightened painfully. “You don’t get to say their names like that.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’ve been reading about them all night.”

“How do you—” I stopped myself, my thoughts spiraling. “How much do you know?”

“More than you,” he said simply.

Anger flared, cutting through the fear. “Then tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me why their records were altered. Tell me why they’re linked to the Russos. Tell me why someone changed their identities years after they died.”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” he said.

“Then give me the right ones!” I snapped, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay composed.

He stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “The right question,” he said, “is why are you still alive?”

The words hit me like a blow, and for a moment, I couldn’t respond. I just stared at him, my mind struggling to process what he had just said.