Page 82 of Hidden Memories

Kat nods. “Yes…”

Callum exhales. “Well, let’s just say… the investigation is warranted.”

Kat stiffens. “What is it?”

Enzo scans information on the laptop screen, scrolling relentlessly. “Nic was doing business with the ’Ndrangheta.”

“The what?”

“The Sicilian Mafia.”

Kat doesn’t react at first. Not physically. Not verbally. It’s like the words don’t register at all. Like her brain refuses to let them in.

And then, a small, sharp shake of her head. “No… no, that’s—” She lets out a brittle laugh like she’s misheard him, like this must be some kind of sick joke.

I feel it before she even realizes it—the spiral. The way her entire body locks up, breath shallowing, hands trembling just slightly. The way she grips the edge of the table like it’s the only thing holding her in place.

“Wait—” she starts, but her voice fractures.

Confusion spreads across her face like wildfire, burning through her in real time. Her hands press against her chest as if trying to hold herself together, as if she can keep herself from breaking apart.

“So he was… was he using Pacific Dreams as a cover or…” Desperation shakes through her. “I don’t understand.”

“We won’t know until we sift through the files,” Enzo says carefully.

Callum cuts in, soft but firm. “We have to hand these over to the FBI.”

Kat’s entire body jolts. “No… wait…”

It’s not just panic. It’s something deeper.

She knows what this means. It means the farmhouse, the booby trap… they weren’t accidents. The Mafia wants those drives.

Her fingers gather the fabric of her dress, her breath coming quicker now, erratic. The color drains from her face, her lips slightly parted. She tries to form a thought, a word, anything—but there’s nothing.

“But if it’s true then we… me and Theo…” She can’t even finish the sentence.

She inhales sharply, but the oxygen doesn’t seem to reach her lungs.

And then—she moves.

Suddenly, she’s shoving her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. A sharp, panicked motion.

“I need a minute.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it rings through me like a gunshot.

And then she’s gone.

The door swings open, her hair whipping over her shoulder as she rushes out.

Ava’s chair scrapes back, the instinct to follow immediate—but I’m already on my feet.

“Ava. I got this.”

I don’t wait for an answer.

I don’t think.

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