Elena found the photograph hidden inside her father’s desk.

It showed a young man standing beside a black car in Palermo. In the corner, written in faded ink, were three words:

De Luca knows.

Her father had been dead for six months, yet the fear he left behind still lived in every locked drawer.

That night, Elena sent the image to her editor.

Ten minutes later, her apartment lights went out.

A knock sounded at the door.

When she opened it, a man in a black suit stood there.

“Mr. De Luca would like to speak with you,” he said.

Elena stared at the gun beneath his jacket.

“That does not sound optional.”

“No,” the man replied. “It is not.”