The night was meant to end with laughter, despite the tension that clung to the air like a second skin. Alessia's 23rd birthday had been one small excuse to breathe — to pretend, if only for a few hours, that the world outside didn't bleed. That there wasn't death in every shadow.
But the illusion shattered.
The masked figure appeared as if born from the dark — lean, hooded, face obscured. No gunfire at first. Just a single presence that turned warmth into ice.
Leona's eyes flicked to the figure instantly, heart lurching. Something felt… wrong. Not dangerous, no — not in the way he usually made her feel.
The figure raised a hand. And just like that — the chaos exploded.
Guns were out in a blink. Mr. Moretti stood in front of Alessia like a wall, shielding his pregnant daughther with sheer fury in his posture. Dante pulled Isabella behind him while Alessandro moved beside Valerio, both trained to kill if needed.
But the hooded figure didn't fire.
"I am Vesper," he said. A distorted voice, crackling through a cheap modulator.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Because that name didn't just echo. It haunted.
Leona blinked.
No.
That wasn't his voice.
That wasn't even close.
She should have reacted. Should have looked afraid. But all she could feel was an odd, biting anger curling in her stomach. Maybe it was the alcohol still dulling her nerves. Maybe it was something older, darker. But when the man said Vesper's name — her name — something inside her rejected it. Violently.
Mrs. Moretti was trembling, clutching her son's arm. "Why is he… aiming at Alessia?"
Valerio noticed it too. The imposter wasn't just here to send a message.
He was here to kill.
Alessia's hands trembled slightly as she stood behind her brother. Her eyes locked with the figure's — or rather, the cold void where his should've been.
"Why her?" Mr. Moretti's voice thundered. "She's done nothing to you!"
The masked figure tilted his head. "She's important to you. That's enough."
"Coward," Alessandro spat.
"Monster," Isabella whispered — then louder, desperate, "What do you want? Is it… is it my daughter? Did you know her?"
That one line struck deeper than any bullet.
Everyone paused.
The masked man hesitated.
It was brief. Barely noticeable. But Leona caught it.
He didn't expect that question.
"You're not him," Leona suddenly said, voice sharp, slicing through the silence.
Everyone turned.
The imposter chuckled. "I wear his face. His blade. That's enough."
"No," she said again. Firmer. "You don't have his knife."
That silenced even him.
Leona stepped forward. Just a step. "Vesper's signature wasn't just the engraving. He had a mark etched in the metal — a swirl only visible when light hit at a certain angle. No one ever noticed it but..." She paused. "But you? You wouldn't even know where to look."
The figure didn't reply.
Isabella's sob caught in her throat. "Please," she begged. "If you knew anything about her — my daughter, Camila — I'll give anything."
The figure stood frozen.
Valerio's gun was now aimed straight at his skull. "You've got three seconds."
But it wasn't a bullet that followed — it was a smoke bomb, dropped at their feet.
The explosion was soft — more of a diversion than damage.
By the time they cleared the haze, the rooftop was empty again.
Gone.
Just like he used to do.
But not as clean.
Not as final.
Valerio helped Alessia sit, his own breath ragged. She was unharmed. For now. Her fingers trembled against his wrist.
"Leona," Dante said quietly. "What you said about the knife…"
She shrugged a little too casually. "I read about it once. A detective's blog. Vesper's quirks."
But he didn't look convinced.
And neither did Valerio.
Isabella, meanwhile, was openly crying now, sitting beside her husband on the low bench. "I thought he knew something," she whispered. "I thought if he wore that name, maybe he had… answers."
Alessandro looked at her, his jaw clenched. "He's not Vesper, Isa. Just another rat with a mask."
"But what if someone's using his name?" she asked. "What if the person who really took Camila… is still watching us?"
That thought chilled the room in a different way.
"Then they've made a mistake," Valerio murmured. "Because now we're watching back."
The tension hadn't left the rooftop, even after the smoke cleared. Conversations buzzed, but Leona couldn't hear any of it. Not really. Her heartbeat was too loud, her thoughts even louder.
"I need some air," she muttered, barely audible, already turning away.
Valerio caught her wrist gently. "Leona—"
"I'm fine," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just a little shaken."
She pulled free before he could say more, weaving through the tables and heading for the service stairwell. No one followed. She made sure of it. A glance behind. A subtle twist of her step. Silence. Perfect.
Once inside the stairwell, she let the door shut behind her with a soft thud. The echo sounded too sharp in the emptiness.
She leaned against the wall, head falling back, eyes closed. Her hand went to her chest, trying to steady the storm inside. That man wasn't Vesper — she knew that. Because she was.
Someone was using her name now.
Wearing it like a mask.
And whoever they were… they just aimed for Alessia.
Leona's fists clenched.
They were trying to provoke her.
They were close.
Too close.
And she was running out of time to keep the two worlds from bleeding into one.
It didn't take long. By morning, every major news channel had seized the headline, broadcasting it on a loop — dramatic music, flashing tickers, and frantic reporters swarming outside the crime scene.
"BREAKING NEWS: BODY FOUND ON ROOFTOP — KILLED BY VESPER?"
The screen showed a tall building downtown, cordoned off with bright yellow police tape. The camera panned upward to where a group of investigators stood silhouetted against the rising sun.
"This morning, the body of a man was discovered on the rooftop of the Medici Tower," a reporter spoke breathlessly. "What makes this murder chilling is the calling card left behind — a signature blade, straight through the heart. Engraved with a single letter: V."
Another clip rolled in — the coroner's van, the body covered in a black tarp. The identity of the victim hadn't been released yet. But the media speculated endlessly.
"Sources confirm the man was masked and wearing a hood at the time of death — similar to the intruder who crashed the Moretti-Russo rooftop dinner just hours earlier."
Social media was already ablaze.
Vesper is back.
The imposter is dead.
One channel even whispered, Was it a warning?
Back in the Moretti estate, Leona stared at the screen. Her jaw was tight, her posture unmoving. Around her, others sat in stunned silence.
She didn't blink.
She knew the truth — it was a warning.
But not for them.
For her.
Someone dared to wear her name.
And she just sent them a message they'd never forget.
They had no idea what Vesper was truly capable of.
But they would.
They all would.
Leona sat on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, sipping her coffee with an unsettling calm as the news of the rooftop murder played on the TV. Her expression didn't flicker, eyes lazily scanning the screen before she muttered, "Served him right." The room was thick with silence, but Dante noticed it first — the way she didn't flinch, didn't gasp like the others. His brows furrowed, watching her more closely. There was no shock in her demeanor, no curiosity. It was as if she'd known it would happen. Or worse — as if she had been waiting for it.