Chapter 9

"Your father is waiting for you at the airport," the subordinate said as the vehicle smoothly accelerated, pulling away from the roadside. "All procedures are handled."

I nodded, saying nothing, only wrapping the blanket tighter around myself. My body was still trembling slightly from pain and cold.

The car merged onto the main road. New York's night scenery flowed past the window—those brilliant lights now seeming so unfamiliar. I pulled out my phone from my coat pocket—that phone I'd used for so many years, storing all traces of "Ella Moratti's" past.

The screen lit up. The lock screen wallpaper was a sunset photographed years ago in Cape Cod—Ricardo's silhouette, secretly taken. Very blurry, but I'd never changed it.

My finger paused on the screen for a few seconds. Then I unlocked it and opened the contacts.

The first name was "R." No full name, just one letter. Next to it was a heart symbol I'd added.

I opened that name. Inside were three numbers: private cell, encrypted satellite phone, and an emergency contact line. I opened them one by one, pressing delete.

"Confirm deletion of this contact?"

I pressed confirm.

Then scrolled down. Marco. The doctor. Several heads of family security departments. Reservation numbers for frequently visited restaurants and clubs. Every name corresponded to a memory, a scene, a part of my past ten years.

Photo library. Thousands of photos. Work photos of jewelry design sketches, blurry mission site records, a few taken in safe houses in dim light of his sleeping profile when I'd secretly photographed him, and many, many more from various occasions where he'd inadvertently appeared in frame—backgrounds or side profiles.

I selected all, pressed delete.

Message records. Encrypted channel communications, daily brief exchanges, a few late-night conversations.

Call records. A long list, most of them that "R."

Delete all.

The phone became very light. Not physically lighter, but a feeling. As if I'd just personally emptied out a lifetime.

I handed the phone to the subordinate in the front seat. "Dispose of it."

He took it, nodding, and placed the phone in a prepared signal-blocking bag.

The car entered Kennedy Airport's private terminal area. Through a special passage, we went directly into a quiet VIP lounge.

Father, Luca Moratti, was already there.

He sat on a leather sofa by the window, two cups of steaming black coffee on the table before him. Seeing me enter, he immediately stood up. We hadn't seen each other in two years. His temples had more white hair, but his posture remained upright, eyes sharp as an eagle's.

His gaze swept my pale face, the cast-covered leg, and the disheveled, blood and dust-stained clothing. His jaw line tensed for a moment but he quickly controlled his emotions.

"Ella," his voice was steady. He walked over and gently embraced me, his hand patting my back. It was a paternal hug—restrained yet powerful.

"Dad," I returned the embrace, my voice somewhat hoarse.

He helped me to the sofa, pushing one cup of coffee toward me. "Drink some. There's still time."

I picked up the bone china cup, warmth transferring from fingertips. The coffee was very strong—that unsweetened Southern Italian style. I took a small sip. The bitter liquid slid down my throat, bringing a sense of reality.

The lounge was very quiet, only the faint sound of flight announcements from afar. I looked out the window—runway lights connected in lines, planes taking off and landing.

My hand reached into the hidden pocket of my skirt, touching that small, hard object. I pulled it out and spread it in my palm.

It was the remnants of that iris brooch. The petals still bore dried, blackened bloodstains—impossible to tell if they were mine or someone else's.

This was the first complete piece I'd designed, cut, and set myself.

It had witnessed my initial skill, witnessed that pitiful warmth between us, and witnessed tonight's explosion, betrayal, and expulsion.

Now, it was just a pile of blood-stained fragments.

I stood up, supporting myself on one leg, slowly moving toward the wastebasket beside the lounge.

I didn't hesitate, opening my hand.

The fragments fell in with a crisp sound, mixing with other discarded paper and coffee cups.

Father watched silently throughout, not stopping me, not speaking. He only reached out to steady me when I walked back to the sofa.

"We should board," the subordinate entered, saying quietly.

Father nodded, picked up his coat draped over the sofa back and put it on, then extended his arm toward me.

I took my father's solid arm, leaning some of my body weight on him. He supported me, his steps steady.

We passed through the quiet VIP passage, heading toward the gate. Ground staff respectfully took our boarding passes, guiding us through the jetway.

As I stepped onto the aircraft stairs, I stopped and turned back one last time.

Through the glass windows, New York's massive city outline glittered in the night, like a huge mausoleum built of ambition and lies.

There lay ten years of Ella Moratti.

There lay all of one woman's naivety, loyalty, and love.

I turned back around, no longer looking.

The cabin door slowly closed behind me, forever shutting that city, along with the woman named Ella Moratti, outside the door.