The streets were quiet, but Giulio’s mind wasn’t.
He had the photo folded in his pocket — her face half-lit, caught on a Gollini surveillance camera at the warehouse last night. Right place, wrong time. She shouldn’t have seen the exchange. She shouldn’t have been there at all.
“Civilian,” the contact had said. “But we can’t risk it.”
Now she was a mark.
He followed her from a distance. No panic in her movements — she didn’t know she’d been made. But she was alert. Glancing over her shoulder. Clutching her bag like it was the only thing grounding her.
She ducked into a side alley, trying to take a shortcut home. He moved closer.
That’s when it happened.
She turned — fast, too fast — and her eyes met his. Wide. Sharp. Not scared, not yet. Just confused.
Giulio stepped out of the shadow, letting the dim streetlight hit his face. The rain tapped against his coat. His left arm — the dull metal glint of the prosthetic — hung at his side.
“You were at the docks last night,” he said, voice low.
She didn’t answer.
“I saw the footage. You weren’t supposed to be there.”
Her mouth opened — to explain, maybe deny it — but the words didn’t come.
He took one step closer. The quiet sound of his prosthetic leg hitting the pavement echoed too loudly in the alley.
“You saw something you shouldn't have.”
A beat.
Her eyes dropped to the weapon holstered under his coat.
And then she ran.
Giulio didn’t chase right away.
He let her get half a block. Let her trip on the uneven sidewalk. Let her believe she had a chance.
Then he moved.
Not to shoot. Not yet.
There was something off about this hit. Her name wasn’t in any system. No criminal record. No family ties to rivals. Just… a college ID. A bookstore job. A paper trail too clean to be true.
Someone was lying.
And Giulio hated being lied to.
When he finally cornered her, she was breathing hard, hands trembling, backed into the wall of an abandoned lot. Still no screaming. Still no pleading.
Just: “I didn’t know what I saw. I didn’t know who you were.”
Giulio stared at her for a long moment.
Then, quietly: “Problem is… now you do.”
Click. The safety on his gun. But his finger never moves to the trigger.
Not yet.