His greatest love.

Chapter 19

The board glared back at Detective Santos like a taunt. Lines of photographs, financial records, and surveillance shots stretched across the cork wall, all meticulously pinned and connected by red thread. Yet the board was hollow — all surface, no substance. Giovanni De Luca, billionaire industrialist, philanthropist to the public, untouchable kingpin in the shadows.

On paper, Giovanni was spotless. Every dollar accounted for, every investment legal, every business deal airtight. A hundred million dollars a day flowed through his empire, polished clean before it ever reached scrutiny. No offshore leak, no suspicious transfer. The perfect criminal was the one who never needed to launder. Santos knew it. He could feel it. But knowing wasn't proof, and proof was the only currency the law accepted.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the ache in his temple. Giovanni wasn't just a ghost — he was a ghost wrapped in legal armor.

"Detective!" an officer's voice cut through. "She's here!"

Santos straightened, pulse quickening. "Where?"

"In your office!"

The detective pushed away from the board, his mind snapping into focus.

"Maria," Santos said gently, lowering himself into the chair across from her. His voice carried the calm authority of someone used to pulling confessions from fragile witnesses. "Thank you for coming."

Her hands trembled as they clutched her purse, knuckles white, veins standing out. She lifted her head just enough for him to see her eyes— red-rimmed, frantic, darting toward every corner of the office as if she expected shadows to leap out and strangle her.

"I..." Her lips quivered, voice barely a whisper. "I want out."

Santos frowned. "Relax. You can talk freely here. No one's listening."

But Maria shook her head furiously, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. "You don't understand," she whispered again, louder this time, like the words were poison. "I don't want to be part of this mission anymore. I can't. I need out."

Santos leaned forward. "Maria, what happened?"

Her breathing quickened. She pressed her palms against her thighs, almost rocking. "Every second I'm in that house, I feel them watching me. Like they already know. Like they're waiting for me to slip." Her voice cracked. "I don't sleep anymore. I keep seeing their faces. Those men—eyes dead like glass. Do you know what it's like to sit across from killers at dinner, pretending to laugh, pretending to belong? One wrong look, Detective, and they'll slit my throat and toss me into the sea."

Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. "I can't live like that. My boys... they still think their mother tucks them in safe every night. But I'm dying inside. Every single day I walk back in there, a part of me dies. If I keep going, I'm not coming out. I know it."

Santos leaned forward, soft but insistent. "Tell me what you found out."

Maria swallowed. "I overheard two security guards. They mentioned a package. At the docks."

"What kind of package?"

"I don't know... but it's worth twenty million."

Santos's pulse spiked. That kind of money meant weapons, drugs, or something worse. "When?"

"Saturday. No time mentioned."

"That's something," Santos murmured. "We'll catch a slip. They always slip."

Her voice rose suddenly, breaking the thin composure she had left. "I'm not going back there."

Santos stayed quiet, studying her, but his jaw hardened.