The sun barely touched the Milan skyline when Leo woke to the sound of the violin.
Soft. Haunting. A melody that clawed at memory.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the pale morning light. The notes were coming from the kitchen—Amara, playing Claudia's old violin, her bow hand trembling slightly with each pass.
He didn't speak. Just watched her.
The music was beautiful, but every note seemed to carry weight. Grief. Fear. Love.
When she finally stopped, she didn't turn to him.
"It was her song," she said quietly. "The one Claudia played at the last recital before she disappeared."
Leo nodded, stepping closer. "I remember. She called it 'The Echo.'"
Amara set the violin down. "It's the first time I've been able to play it without crying."
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then maybe we're getting stronger."
"No," she whispered. "Just more numb."
Matteo returned at noon with bad news.
"The Zurich files were released. Three news sites ran them. But the ICC dropped the investigation."
Leo's jaw clenched. "Why?"
"Pressure. Blackmail. Rinaldi's fingerprints are everywhere—judges, prosecutors, editors. He saw this coming. He's still ahead of us."
Amara paced. "Then we need to change the game."
Matteo shook his head. "We don't have the firepower."
Leo looked up. "Maybe we don't need firepower. We need a stage."
They rented a private theater in Venice.
Amara thought he was joking at first—until she saw the invitation Leo drafted.
An evening of remembrance. One night only.
Featuring: Leonardo Moretti
Location: Teatro Sospira, Venice
Admission: Free to those who remember.
"Let the ghosts have their say."
"What is this?" she asked.
Leo lit a match, held it up to the shadows. "A message. To everyone in the network. I'm coming back."
"You're baiting them."
"I'm giving them a choice. Watch me play… or kill me trying."
Teatro Sospira hadn't seen a crowd in years.
But the night of the performance, it was packed.
Figures in tailored coats, dark sunglasses, gloves hiding tattoos. Whispers swept the red velvet aisles like smoke. Faces from the past. Eyes that had once looked away when the Morettis fell. Eyes that now stared at Leo, wondering if they were witnessing resurrection—or suicide.
Amara stood backstage, heart pounding.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
Leo smiled faintly. "I do."
He stepped into the light.
Silence fell.
Leo sat at the grand piano at center stage, the spotlight wrapping around him like a shroud. For a moment, he did nothing.
Then he played.
The melody was one he had written in secret. A dirge and a waltz. A memory and a warning. Each note struck deep, weaving grief with fire, pulling the air tight with tension.
He played his pain. His father's lies. Claudia's screams. Amara's love.
By the time he ended, the room was still frozen in reverence—and fear.
He rose, stepped to the edge of the stage, and looked at them all.
"You know who I am," he said. "And you know what we've become."
Gasps. Some stood to leave.
"No one's leaving," Leo said, voice sharp. "Not until you hear me."
Security tensed, but none moved.
"I'm not here to reclaim the syndicate. I'm here to destroy what poisoned it. Rinaldi. Mara. All of you who turned your faces while they killed, stole, and erased the people I loved."
Amara appeared behind him now, holding up one of the Zurich files on a projector.
"This is what you built. This is what's dying tonight."
The first shot rang out from the balcony.
But Leo had seen it coming.
He ducked, pulled Amara behind the piano. Chaos erupted—screams, gunfire, people trampling over seats as the theater descended into madness.
Matteo fired from the left wing, dropping two men in suits before they reached the stage. One of Rinaldi's soldiers tried to flee, but Claudia—hidden in the lighting booth—cut the power, plunging the stage into flickering red emergency light.
Leo grabbed Amara's hand. "Exit. Now."
They sprinted backstage as bullets tore through curtains and plaster. Leo turned, gun drawn, covering their retreat.
"We planned for this," he muttered. "Just like Rinaldi would have."
Outside, in the fog-thick alley, Mara waited.
Her hair was soaked from rain, her coat stained with blood.
She pointed her pistol at Amara.
"I told you," she said, "you don't know how this ends."
Leo stepped forward slowly. "You're alone."
She smiled faintly. "You think that makes me weak?"
"No," Amara said. "It makes you human. Finally."
That made Mara falter.
Just enough.
Amara raised her own weapon and fired once.
Mara collapsed to the wet cobblestones, hands twitching as the pistol fell from her fingers.
She looked up at Amara and whispered, "You should've run."
Then she stopped breathing.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
They didn't wait.
By the time authorities reached the blood-streaked theater, Leo, Amara, Matteo, and Claudia were gone.
The headlines exploded the next morning.
"Night of Blood: Secret Syndicate Performance Ends in Chaos"
"Mara Vescari Confirmed Dead in Venice Shooting"
"Leonardo Moretti: Savior or Criminal?"
No one knew where Leo had gone.
Only that the world had changed in one night.
Three days later, in a quiet chapel in the countryside, Amara knelt beside a cracked marble tomb.
Leo stood behind her, silent.
It was Claudia's resting place now.
"She found peace," Amara whispered. "Do you think we ever will?"
Leo touched her shoulder.
"If we fight for it, yes."
She turned to him. "And if we lose?"
"Then we lose together."
In the shadows of Budapest, Giovanni Rinaldi stared at a burning newspaper.
"Mara failed," said his assistant.
Rinaldi nodded. "I expected that."
He stood slowly, walked to the window.
"But now the boy has drawn a line. A war line."
He smiled.
"Let's see if he's ready to bleed for it."