Page 59 of Veil of the Past
I pour another drink, the amber liquid catching the red light for a moment before sliding down my throat, burning a path to the core of my turmoil. Nicolo is pacing behind me, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers tapping against his phone as he examines the CCTV footage from the surrounding area. Matteo sits at the end of the table with his laptop, the screen flickering with codes and images, his fingers moving with a frenzied urgency.
“Matteo,” I snap, my voice harsh, desperate. “What have you got?”
He doesn’t even look up, his focus unbroken. “I’m running an analysis on the metadata from the photos Helen sent. If there’s any geo-location data embedded, we might have a chance.”
I clutch the glass, my knuckles pale, struggling to maintain a shred of control. The room feels too small, the walls closing in, the noise too loud, a pounding rhythm that matches my heartbeat. My mind races, flashes of Alessia’s face, her smile, her laughter, all of it distorted by fear now. I shouldn’t have let her stay alone, but she wanted space to grieve the loss of her Nonna. I shouldn’t have left her unprotected. I should’ve been there to protect her myself. Their guards were clearly useless fucks. What the fuck was I thinking? No one can protect my woman better than me.
Nicolo moves to my side, his gaze still fixed on the screen. “Found something,” he mutters, his voice tight. I lean over, squinting at the grainy footage. There, barely discernible in the shadows, are two black vans parked out back. The image is shaky, the quality poor, but it’s enough. We see figures moving, the girls being dragged out, split up between the two vans.
I slam my fist on the table, making the glasses rattle. “Dammit!” I growl, anger boiling over. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”
Nicolo doesn’t flinch. He never does. His calm under pressure is maddening. “They were prepared,” he agrees, his tone measured, too measured. “And they’re covering their tracks well. Matteo, can you enhance the plates?”
Matteo nods, fingers flying across the keyboard. “I’ll try, but the camera that was used is old and grainy. They were smart and stayed out of the camera’s direct line of sight. This is the best angle we have.”
I down the rest of the bourbon, feeling it scorch my throat, trying to burn away the helplessness. It doesn’t. Nothing does. I glance over at Nicolo, whose jaw is clenched, tension rolling off him in waves. This is different for him. He always keeps his distance and stays out of Camorra’s business. But not now. Not when it concerns Helen. Our mother.
“Nicolo,” I start, my voice strained. “Why didn’t we pursue her harder? Why did we let her slip through the cracks?”
He turns to me, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “Because we thought she was done, Romiro. We thought she’d disappear into whatever hell she crawled out of. We never expected her to come back. And we never thought she could do this much harm.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just bitterness, just a gnawing pit of regret. “Well, she’s back. And she’s more dangerous than ever. We underestimated her.”
Nicolo’s expression softens just a fraction, a glimpse of something almost like pity in his eyes. “Maybe. But we’re not done. Not yet.”
Matteo suddenly sits up straighter. “I’ve got something,” he announces. “There’s a slight reflection in the window of one of the vans… it’s faint, but it looks like a street sign.”
We all crowd around the screen, eyes straining to see the tiny details Matteo has managed to pull from the pixelated mess. It’s there, just barely—a few letters, part of a name.
“Matteo, can you enhance it?” Nicolo urges, his voice low.
“I’m trying,” Matteo mutters, his fingers flying over the keyboard, tweaking the image, sharpening the details.
The tension is thick—my breath shallow. Each second feels like an eternity. I’m holding on by a thread, the hope that this might lead us somewhere, anywhere. I can’t lose them. I can’t lose her. Alessia. Her name is a mantra in my mind, a lifeline in this sea of chaos.
30
ALESSIA
Iblink awake, my mind foggy and disoriented. The air is thick and stale, each breath a reminder of my captivity. My surroundings are bleak: the rough, cold concrete walls close in on me, and the faint sound of dripping water echoes ominously. I try to move, but the ropes binding my wrists restrict me, biting into my skin. I spot Mara and Valentina across from me, slumped in their chairs, tied up.
The shadows dance across the walls, creating a haunting landscape that mirrors my fear. I close my eyes, attempting to block out the panic rising within me, but a sudden shout pierces the silence—my heart races. I strain to listen, each sound amplifying my dread.
The door creaks open, and a figure steps inside, their presence casting a long silhouette. A woman. I don’t recognize who she is, but I suspect that she knows who I am. She approaches with a predatory smile, an embodiment of my worst fears.
“Ah…look who’s awake,” she taunts, her voice dripping with malice. I shudder as she grips my hair, tugging sharply. A jolt of pain shoots through me, mingling with my humiliation. I feel so small, so helpless.
As she leans closer, the stench of her perfume overwhelms me, a sickening reminder of my reality. I can’t suppress the whimper that escapes my lips. Her laughter echoes as she leans back, relishing my distress.
“Who are you?” My voice is hoarse, and my eyes sting.
She lets out a menacing laugh, before she calls out, “Boys!” Two large stocky men step out from the darkness. One of them moves to grab something from the corner, and the other goes to untie me from the chair, before tying my hands behind my back and pushing me to the cold, stone floor.
I’m lying on the hard ground, strapped down, unable to move. My heart races as I sense the cool air against my skin, but a chill runs deeper—into my bones. I hear the sound of rushing water, and dread pools in my stomach.
Suddenly, I feel the cloth being placed over my face. It's heavy and suffocating, cutting off my vision. Panic surges within me as I realize what’s about to happen. My breaths quicken, but the fabric clings to my face, making it impossible to inhale. I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat.
Then, the water starts pouring. It rushes over the cloth, and I feel an immediate wave of terror wash over me. My body instinctively struggles, thrashing against the restraints. My lungs scream for air, but there’s none to be found. The world narrows, and my senses are overwhelmed—the sound of water rushing, the darkness behind my eyelids, and the terrifying grip of panic tightening around my chest.
