His greatest love.

Chapter 8.

Detective Santos slumped into the cracked leather chair, his jaw clenched, his fingers tapping a syncopated rhythm of frustration on the desk. His partner, Detective Morreti, leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose like the weight of the entire case had finally settled into his skull.

"So what now?" Morreti muttered. "We've combed every inch of this case, and we've got jack shit to show for it."

Santos didn't answer immediately. He was still staring at the board on the far wall—photos of the De Luca family webbed together by red string, crime scene snapshots, and one particularly smug portrait of Giovanni De Luca that stared back at him like a taunt.

"It's them," Santos said finally, his voice low and cold. "Every thread leads back to that family. They're behind the drugs, the disappearances, the shootings. All of it."

Morreti shook his head. "You know the rules, Santos. Innocent until proven guilty. And so far? Not a goddamn shred of admissible evidence."

"Bullshit," Santos snapped. "Everyone in this city knows they're at the top of the food chain. But they've buried their tracks so deep no one's managed to dig them out."

"And Giovanni?" Morreti arched an eyebrow. "The man earns over a hundred million a day—legally. His empire is cleaner on paper than a priest's conscience."

Santos let out a bitter laugh. "He's a criminal. Just one that's better dressed and harder to catch."

Morreti leaned back in his seat. "So what? We follow him around and hope he magically confesses?"

"No," Santos said, a glint in his eye. "We shadow him. Watch every move. I don't care how clean he is—everyone slips. And when he does, I'll be there."

Morreti hesitated. "And what if he figures it out and retaliates?"

"Then we cross that bridge when we're bleeding on it," Santos muttered.

His phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID and grimaced.

"Why didn't you answer?"

"Its Ashley."

Detective Morreti watched Santos carefully, sensing something unspoken beneath the surface.

"You're still talking to Ashley?" he asked, his voice calm but probing.

Santos exhaled, rubbing his temples like trying to squeeze out the truth from a vice.

"Yeah," he admitted, voice low and rough. "More than I probably should."

Morreti raised an eyebrow. "After everything?"

"She keeps asking me to help fix things with Diana. Wants me to be the one to talk to her, to get her to forgive her."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Like I'm some kind of diplomat for her mistakes."

He paused, eyes clouding with something like regret—or maybe confusion.

"But the truth? The truth is, I don't want Ashley. Not really."

"What do you want then?" Morreti pressed.

Santos looked out the window, his jaw tightening.

"I want Diana. The life we planned. The family we dreamed of before she found out... before I fucked everything up."

His voice cracked on the last words, a whisper to himself.

"I miss her—the way she looked at me when she thought I was different. The way her hand felt in mine, like we were unbreakable. Like we could beat the whole goddamn world together."