Chapter 4 Eyes I Didn't Recognize

Lexa's POV

By the next night, I'd convinced myself it meant nothing.

It was just a mistake...one night. A break in judgment I could pack it away and bury it under routine. I'd done it before-with pain, with memories, with the sound of gunshots. I could do it again.

I wore my hair tighter. My eyes are colder. My steps are sharper. Lexa mode, fully activated.

Rosa didn't ask questions. She was smart like that. She saw the tired in my face, handed me a cold drink, and went back to restocking the shelf like everything was normal.

It wasn't.

Inferno had its usual crowd. Regulars. Strangers. Tourists looking for trouble. I moved between tables like I was floating-polite, quick, and distant. But every time the door opened, my heart jumped. Every time I saw a man in a dark jacket, I braced.

But it wasn't him.

Luca didn't come back that night.

And I wasn't sure if I was relieved... or disappointed.

Around midnight, I caught the stare.

Not from table six. From near the back, far right corner with low light. One of the smaller booths where we usually kept drunk loners and people who didn't want to be noticed.

He wasn't flashy. Just a grey hoodie, cap pulled low. He didn't order anything fancy. He just sat there sipping water like he belonged.

But his eyes were on me.

Not casual glances. Not bored interest.

Watching...Tracking.

My skin itched. I turned away, shook it off, tried to focus on a drink order. But when I looked back, he hadn't moved. Still staring.

And something about him... it itched at a memory I couldn't grab.

After my next run, I circled back and asked Rosa, "Have you seen the guy in the corner?"

She looked. Shrugged. "Didn't notice him come in. Probably just high."

I nodded, but my stomach twisted.

No one just slips in here. Not without being noticed.

I moved toward the back room, but halfway down the hall I paused and glanced over my shoulder.

He was gone.

Just like that.

Vanished without a sound. No glass left behind. No tip. Nothing.

Back in the staff room, I locked the door. Not because I was scared. but because I'd seen that face before. Not clearly, though. Not recently. But somewhere in the dark parts of my memory... tied to my father's last days. I couldn't place him yet, but I knew.

He wasn't new.

And if he remembered me...

If he was putting the pieces together...

I was in trouble.

I didn't sleep after my shift.

Didn't shower. Didn't eat. I just sat in the middle of my small apartment with the lights off, legs folded beneath me, staring at nothing. Waiting for my heartbeat to slow down. Waiting for the shaking in my hands to stop.

It didn't.

I pulled the shoebox from under the couch-the one I told myself I'd throw away a hundred times. The one that held the pieces of the girl I used to be. Alexandria Moretti. Daughter of Marcini. The girl who watched her father bleed out on white marble while men with money and clean shoes walked away.

The newspaper clipping was still there. So was the pressed white handkerchief he'd always kept in his pocket-stained now, the red faded to brown. I touched it gently, then moved it aside and dug deeper.

And there it was.

The sketch.

Folded into quarters. Wrinkled and old. A rough tracing of the tattoo-the map. My father's hidden legacy. It was almost childlike in how he drew it... like he'd done it fast. Like he knew he didn't have time.

I traced the lines slowly, letting my fingers remember.

And that's when it clicked.

The man in the hoodie.

He wasn't just watching.

He was looking for something.

He knew.

Maybe not everything... but enough.

And that meant the past wasn't done with me yet.

I snapped out of it when my phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number.

No text. Just a picture.

It loaded slowly, and when it did... I froze.

It was a photo of my locker at work. The one only employees could access. And on the metal surface, written in black permanent marker, were four words:

"Does the ink burn?"

My throat closed. I blinked once, twice, and then zoomed in. There was no mistaking it. That was my locker. That was my code. Someone had been inside.

I jumped to my feet, grabbing my bag and keys with shaking hands. I was halfway to the door before I remembered what I promised myself:

No running.

Not again.

But this wasn't about hiding anymore. It was about timing. Someone was poking the hornet's nest... and I needed to know who before they struck harder.

I sent one message to a burner contact I hadn't used in two years.

"Is he still in town?"

The reply came almost instantly.

"He never left."

My legs went weak.

Who?

Cruz?

One of the guards? Someone from my father's side?

No. It was worse than that.

Someone else knew about the map.

Someone else remembered who I was.

And they weren't just watching anymore.

They were waiting.

The message haunted me for two days.

I didn't answer it. Didn't report it. Just erased it and tried to keep moving. My instincts said to run-far and fast-but something deeper, something colder, said no.

Not yet.

Not until I knew who was pulling the strings this time.

The next morning, I was behind the bar restocking vodka when I felt the air shift.

You ever feel someone's presence before you see them? That invisible pull, like your body knows something your mind hasn't caught up to yet? That's what it was.

I looked up.

Luca.

Same dark shirt. Same expensive watch. Same calm, dangerous energy. He didn't walk in like a man trying to make an impression. He walked in like he'd already made one-and knew I'd remember it.

I hated how right he was.

"Evening," he said, his voice smooth as sin.

I didn't answer right away. I just went back to the bottles, wiping labels that didn't need cleaning. "Didn't think you were the come-back-twice type."

"I'm not," he said, sliding onto a barstool. "But then again... I'm not usually curious either."

I didn't like the way that word landed.

Curious.

"What do you want?"

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the bar. "You."

I laughed, cold and sharp. "Try again."

"Answers."

I froze for half a second. Just half. But it was enough.

He noticed.

"You don't talk much about yourself, Lexa."

"Maybe because there's nothing to say."

"Or maybe you're hiding something."

I met his eyes then, fully. "Aren't we all?"

He smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes. "Fair."

I poured him a drink. Not whiskey this time-gin. It was clean and quiet...fit for the atmosphere. He sipped it like he had nowhere else to be.

"Last time you left without a word," I said.

"Didn't want to make it complicated."

"You think it's simple now?"

"I think..." He tilted his head. "I'd like to know you better."

That's when the knot in my chest tightened.

Because this wasn't a game anymore. He wasn't just flirting. He was getting invested. And that? That was dangerous. For both of us.

"You should stop looking," I said, my voice lower now.

"Why?"

"Because if you find out who I really am, you'll wish you hadn't."

He didn't flinch. Just took another slow sip. "Challenge accepted."

And just like that... I felt the panic rising again. Not loud. Not obvious. Just the quiet realization that things were slipping.

I turned away. "Don't you have places to be, Gueco?"

He stood and tossed a few bills on the counter. "I do."

Then he leaned in-close enough that I could smell the cologne on his skin, that familiar warmth that still lived on my sheets.

"But I like it here better."

He walked out.

And I stood there... pulse hammering... wishing he'd stay gone.

Because the truth?

He wasn't just close to me now.

He was close to the truth.

Too close.