Chapter 2 Shattered truths

CHAPTER TWO – SHATTERED TRUTHS

The next morning, Marcos sat in his car across the street from vanessa's building, sipping bitter black coffee from a corner deli and pretending he had a plan.

He didn't.

She'd stayed inside most of the night. No guests. No movement after 9 p.m. Not even a flicker of light in the living room. It was quiet grief. The kind that turns people into ghosts before they're dead.

Still, this woman-this tired, bruised soul-was apparently the biggest threat to a multi-million-dollar crime empire.

Marcos pulled out a file folder. Vanessa Maren. Age 27. Former journalist at The City Watch. Fired after an alleged "breakdown" and obsession with her sister's death. Hadn't written a story since. Bank records showed she was behind on rent. Maxed out on two credit cards. No savings. No current employment.

She was falling apart.

"And yet, she had the entire De Luca family rattled.I can't imagine it not gonna lie"Marcos quietly said to himself

Vanessa poured hot water over the same tea bag she'd used twice already. Her kitchen was almost empty-two chipped mugs, half a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and one roach that had the nerve to show up every morning at exactly 7:00 a.m.

She'd named him Todd, because if she was going to be broke, heartbroken, and alone, she could at least have someone to yell at.

"Todd, I swear to God, today is not the day," she mumbled, smacking at the counter.

The cockroach escaped, of course.

Sighing, she sat down with her lukewarm tea and opened her laptop. A Word document stared back at her. Blank. Titled: Mia Maren: What They Won't Tell You.

She hadn't written a word.

Because every time she tried, all she could hear was Mia's laugh. All she could see was the crime scene photo the detective reluctantly showed her: her sister's body crumpled in an alley behind a nightclub, mascara smeared, neck slashed so deep the coroner had asked if it was personal.

But "no leads" and "random attack" had been the final report.

Bullshit.

Vanessa exhaled shakily and clicked open her email inbox instead. She scrolled past overdue bills, automated rejections, and one email from a former editor titled:

"Please stop, Vanessa"

She clicked it.

I know you're still grieving, but you need to stop emailing everyone about Mia. You're burning bridges you might not be able to rebuild.

She deleted it without reading the rest.

Marcos watched her leave the building around ten, carrying a tote bag and a battered camera.

She wasn't going to an office. Or a protest. Or a press conference.

She went to the county records office.

He followed her in, keeping his head down. Vanessa signed the guest log and asked for public records from two years ago-the week her sister died.

"You looking for something specific?" the clerk asked.

"Just records on a shipping company. Portside Logistics."

Marcos flinched.

That name was too close to home.

It was one of their front companies. A shell business used to launder money from drug and arms deals. Mia had no connection to it. At least, not on paper.

He sat at the far end of the room, pretending to read a land deed from 1997 while watching her work.

She wasn't taking notes.

She was taking pictures-page after page of permit logs, maintenance reports, employee rosters. Some names Marcos recognized. Some he didn't.

She's not just grieving, he realized. She's investigating.

The fear his father felt? It wasn't misplaced.

Vanessa wasn't the kind of woman who yelled. She didn't scream for justice. She whispered her way into it, quietly and dangerously.

And she was getting close.

Outside, Vanessa's camera battery died just as she stepped into the alley behind the records office.

"Damn it..."

She knelt to fix it-and that's when she heard it. A click.

Not a gun.

A lighter.

She turned around.

A man leaned against the brick wall, flicking a silver Zippo open and shut. He wore dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and an expression like he was trying not to feel anything.

His presence was quiet. Heavy.

"You following me?" she asked, clutching the camera to her chest.

"No," he said. "But maybe I should be."

His voice was smooth. Low. Dangerous without trying to be.

"That supposed to scare me?"

"Would it work if I said yes?"

She didn't back away, which impressed him. And concerned him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Someone who thinks you're getting close to a fire you don't understand."

Vanessa narrowed her eyes.

"Do I look like I'm scared of fire?"

Marcos didn't answer.

He just walked past her, slowly, brushing her shoulder.

"Then you've never been burned the right way."

That night, Vanessa sat on the floor of her apartment, camera beside her, Mia's photo in her lap.

She didn't know who the man was.

But something about the way he looked at her...

Like he'd already buried everything he loved.

Like he knew what guilt tasted like.

And maybe-just maybe-he'd been close to whatever killed her sister.

"Come back tomorrow," she whispered, staring at the door.