Chapter 3 The Building between

Chapter 3

The Building Between Us

Elio's eyes were unreadable as his jaw was clenched as a shaft of light cut across his face in a lazy dust flotation. He was standing there like a man balancing between two different versions of himself: the devoted soldier and the bereaved lover. He didn't say how he knew, Maria. There were only a few potentially risky ways to learn about the tower. Elio said in a low but insistent voice, "I shouldn't be here." "They'll also be watching me." Maria observed as he merely remembered something as his fingers traced the poetry book's spine without reading. an early life. a nation that is no longer in existence. Perhaps a previous version of her that he believed he could save. She said bitterly, "The tower was buried for a reason." He responded, "And yet you went looking." She turned away, her hands trembling as well, but not out of fear but because she was aware. from being seen's unbearable intimacy. I believed I could deal with my past. However, the past is not static. It's moving. It enters the present by chopping through. She stated, "I don't even know who I am anymore." She was able to smell the damp wool in his coat as Elio moved closer. "Maria... if they know what you've read, they'll kill you." Additionally, the Resistance will not safeguard you. They do not view you as a symbol. You are a burden. She let out a bitter laugh. "As for you? What do I mean to you? He did not respond. not through words. Just a glance-tired, hurt, and possibly even ashamed. He finally said, "The tower is more than you think." It goes beyond just memory. It gives leverage. Now, Maria could feel the weight of it. The email. The text. her retail store. Her physique Her muteness. She gave a single nod, like a condemned person does before the rope gets tighter. She stated, "I won't forget," but she would burn the letter. He spoke briefly before closing his mouth. They were both aware that forgetting was no longer an option. The pace of the outside footsteps was too slow. Someone was listening, someplace. In a quiet game, they were no longer participants. They were the entire board. The fragments. Additionally, another person had begun to move. Alessandro Orfeo waited for silence before speaking. He had mastered stillness at the age of 32, listening to taped voices, observing shadows move through alleyways, and studying people as though every glance could end a life. His eyes, as dark as ink that had been spilled, showed nothing. However, a quiet guilt burned within them. He held a clean job title at the Department of Internal Affairs. Alessandro was the official person who made sure that high-value government interests were safe. He cleaned up political mess, buried secrets, and neutralized threats before they got out of hand. He was a ghost wearing a pricey suit who moved between lives like a midnight curse. In the past, Alessandro had believed in what he did. He was driven by conviction during the agency's early years, believing that the line between good and evil was sharp and worthy of defense. Before the lines began to blur, before orders were given without justification, and before guilt began to cling to him like gunpowder. He continued to reside in Rome, but his life was very different from Italian poetry. The furniture in his modern-looking apartment was untouched and sterile. His only personal possession was an old copy of Inferno that had been underlined and annotated in the margins. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" was a self-prescription rather than a warning to others. Alessandro did not gamble, did not drink, or smile often. His vices came from within. Regret. Obedience. Doubt.

Maria Castillo followed, her name appearing folded in a plain manila file on his desk. Twenty-nine, half-Spanish, half-Italian educator. The file mentioned political leanings, a few minor protests, and hints of connections to the underground press. Alessandro's attention, however, was not drawn to her file. The surveillance image was stapled inside. Sunlight was skimming across her collarbone as she watered plants from a balcony. She didn't pose. She was not aware that she was being watched. Perhaps that was the reason it struck him. She was unmasked in a world of masks. His instructions were crystal clear: get close to her, win her trust, and learn who she talks to. Naturally, he accepted the assignment. He did always. But something changed as he folded the file and put it in his coat. A possible vision. Or perhaps it was just the quiet dread of knowing that his conscience, which had been dormant for so long, was beginning to rise again. They met in a Trastevere bookshop. It was obviously staged. Alessandro was aware that every Wednesday afternoon, she went to the shop. He reached for the same volume after waiting until she was flipping through Neruda's Love Sonnets. She smiled, "Oh." Move forward. I'm just looking around. With a nod, he said, "No, please." "I persist." The incident was unassuming. Or it would have been if his team hadn't choreographed it, hidden audio picks in flowerpots along the street, cameras in the café next door. Maria Castillo was a warm, courteous person who wore vintage scarves and had a scent of bergamot and old books. They discussed poetry. He easily lied, claiming to be a freelance translator. She trusted him. Why would she not? He had a face that looked like it belonged in spy novels and movies. Together, they left the store. Dinner turned into coffee. Laughter erupted during dinner. Additionally, Alessandro's most precious commodity, laughter, felt foreign yet necessary. She did not match the descriptions. She avoided politics. She avoided ideological discussions. She did not identify anyone. However, despite her kindness, her eyes showed something of a defiance and a quiet sadness. Alessandro was tasked with obtaining her secrets. He found himself instead protecting them. He sent back a brief, impersonal, and mechanical report a week later. He gave them the fundamentals. She lived by herself. Educated at a private school. kept her distance. But he lied when they asked for more information, like who she talked to late at night and why her phone was off every Saturday night. He hadn't given it much thought. Additionally, you have already chosen a side once you lie to your superiors. He was invited to her apartment by Maria one evening. She chuckled and brushed her hair behind her ear, calling it "just risotto." "Maybe a little Vivaldi as well." The interior was vibrant, with paintings leaning against unpainted walls, books stacked like long-lost lovers, and plants in ceramic pots. Contrary to everything in Alessandro's world, it felt real. He heard her softly humming in the kitchen, breaking through the usual silence that encircled his chest. He briefly forgot why he was there. But when she pulled an old picture out of a drawer, the illusion fell apart. Her. A man. The words "Libertà o morte" are written in spray paint behind them. Alessandro's pulse sped up. A defunct radical group that he thought was harmless was the symbol. However, harmless does not imply forgotten. Maria observed his response. She said, "Old days." "The foolish ones." He gave a nod but said nothing. But he didn't sleep that night. That image would be viewed differently by the agency. They would inquire. Demand responses. Take charge. Now he had two options: either give Maria to the wolves and feed them or hide Maria's secrets deep within his own. He was aware that he was no longer watching her when he selected the latter option. He was safeguarding her. He would lose everything as a result.