| ALESSANDRO |

F O R T Y - T H R E E

The car left the coastal highway and climbed into a maze of hills where Naples spilled upward like a living amphitheater. Dusk pooled in the alleys, violet and gold, while scooters wove reckless patterns below us. The smell of sea-salt, frying anchovies, and wood-smoke slid through the open vents, thick enough to taste.

Imran's phone buzzed once. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening, then slipped it back into his jacket.
"She's waiting," he said quietly. "Top floor. Rooftop café."

"Your contact?" I asked.

A small but knowing smile flickered. "Lila."

The name rolled off his tongue like an old song. Something in the sound made my stomach knot.

The Climb

The car stopped in front of a weather-worn stone building whose windows glowed like pockets of fire. A single wrought-iron staircase curled upward, lined with tiny amber bulbs that winked against the dark. Somewhere above, a jazz guitar slid through the warm night, slow and teasing.

Imran gestured for me to follow. Each step rang against the iron, carrying us away from the noise of traffic and deeper into a hush that felt half-sacred, half-dangerous.

When we reached the rooftop, the city opened like a secret. Lanterns floated between pots of night-blooming jasmine. Low tables glimmered with candles. Beyond the railing, the Bay of Naples stretched black and silver, the moon laying a trembling path across the water.

And there framed by the last smear of sunset stood Lila.

Lila

She was taller than I expected, the kind of tall that didn't need heels to command a room. Long, sun-toned legs disappeared into a cream-colored midi skirt that whispered when she moved. Light-brown hair spilled in loose waves down her back, catching threads of gold from the lanterns. Her skin was the soft bronze of late-summer sand, a tan that looked permanent, earned by living where the sun always finds you.

Hazel eyes, green at the center, rimmed with amber, tracked Imran the instant we stepped onto the terrace. They held the warmth of honey and the sharpness of a blade, a gaze that laughed before her mouth even moved.

She straightened from the balcony rail and smiled, slow and deliberate.
"Late, Khan," she said in Italian as smooth as warm caramel. "I should fine you for making a lady wait."

Imran's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. "Still dramatic, Lila. Beirut didn't cure you of that."

Beirut. The word slipped between them like an unopened letter.

Her attention shifted to me, the golden light catching in her eyes. "And you must be Yasmine," she said, offering a hand with nails the color of deep wine. "The girl worth crossing oceans for."

Her grip was cool and self possessed.
"Only because I book the flights," I managed.

Lila laughed soft, amused, a sound that slid along my skin like silk. "Smart. Keep him honest."
She turned back to Imran, her smile tilting into something that was both challenge and invitation. "Someone has to."

Espresso & Old Ghosts

We followed her to a corner table half hidden behind a curtain of ivy. Without a word to any waiter, three tiny cups of espresso arrived, steam curling like smoke signals. She must have ordered the moment she saw us.

"So," she began, stirring sugar with a lazy flick of her wrist, "you finally chase ghosts again. Dangerous pastime."
Her gaze lingered on Imran. "Still running toward impossible men?"

Imran's jaw flexed. "And you still collect secrets like postcards."

"I collect stories," she corrected, leaning forward until the scent of her perfume, honeysuckle layered over davana, replaced the salt air. "Secrets simply follow me home."

She tilted her head toward me, hazel eyes glinting. "Do you know what he was like back then? Your Imran?"

"He's not my Imran," I said too quickly.

Her smile sharpened and she looked down. "Not yet."

Heat rose along my neck. I reached for my cup, the bitter espresso scalding my tongue but failing to drown the sudden electricity sparking across the table.

"Lila," Imran said, his voice a blade.

"What?" she replied, all innocence. "I only mean he's better company than he admits."

The Folder

With a flick of her long fingers, Lila slid a slim folder across the table.
"These will get you through the first checkpoints south of Salerno," she said. "New IDs, burner phones, a few names to whisper if doors stay locked. After that, the road is full of teeth."

Imran reached for the folder. His hand brushed hers, just a graze, but it lingered a heartbeat too long. Neither of them looked away.

I forced my eyes to the skyline to ignore the intimate moment . Vesuvius loomed black against the moon, silent and watchful.

"For free?" I asked, more sharply than I intended.

"For him," Lila answered without breaking Imran's gaze. "And because some ghosts deserve their reckoning."

Fault Lines

Lila set her chin on her palm, eyes never leaving his. "Tell me, Yasmine. How does it feel, chasing a man you may never see alive?"

"It feels," I said carefully, "like the only thing worth doing."

Something unreadable flickered across her face,admiration, envy, maybe both. "Loyalty," she murmured. "A dangerous luxury."
Her gaze softened as it returned to Imran. "You used to be loyal too."

He held her eyes, something unguarded flashing like heat lightning. "Still am."

"To whom?" she whispered.

Imran didn't answer.

The silence pressed in, heavy with old nights and unfinished confessions. I clenched my hands in my lap until my nails bit skin. Alessandro's name throbbed in my heart like a wound, yet the charge between these two was impossible to ignore and more dangerous than any gun.

Departure

Imran stood first, breaking the spell. "We leave before dawn," he said, tucking the folder into his jacket. "No names. No trails."

Lila rose slowly, moonlight tracing the long lines of her body. "Then you'll need more than forged papers. You'll need someone who knows which doors to knock on." She leaned close enough for her perfume to blur my thoughts. "Lucky for you, I still enjoy watching you run into trouble."

Imran's mouth tilted in a half-smile. "Careful, Lila. Trouble follows you."

"Maybe," she said, brushing past him so her shoulder grazed his arm, "I like the company."

The lanterns swayed as she disappeared down the staircase, leaving behind the scent of davana and the echo of a laugh that sounded dangerously like a promise.

Imran and I descended into the Neapolitan night in silence. Far below, scooters buzzed and church bells tolled a late hour. His sleeve brushed mine as we walked, and I felt the warmth of it like a spark I wasn't ready to name.

Somewhere in the south, Alessandro might still be alive.
But here, among lanterns, salt air and the ghost of a woman named Lila, another kind of danger had already begun to breathe.