Page 13 of Fire and Silk
“We made it look like she travelled overseas,” he replies. “Left a letter. Just like you asked.”
I nod.“Okay. Lead me to her.”
Matteo hesitates. His eyes flick down to my open shirt, my bare chest still half-marked with lipstick, and the belt I haven’t bothered to tighten.
He doesn’t say anything, of course. Just gives me thatlook—the one that saysReally? Like this?
I grin. “She’s unconscious, Matteo. I doubt she’ll mind the dress code.”
He exhales softly through his nose—his version of a sigh—and turns. “This way.”
I follow him through the northern hallway, past the gunmetal doors and biometric scanners, then down—deeper—beneath the estate. The lighting changes as we go: warm gold shifting to sterile white, then to low, industrial gray. The air grows colder. Still. Even down here feels different—denser.
The underground levels aren’t part of the architectural plans. Not even the blueprints stored with the city. They’recarved behind reinforced steel, lined with electromagnetic shielding and escape shafts disguised as wine cellars. I designed them myself.
We pass two doors with retinal scanners. One with voice authorization.
The door hisses open, and the Ash Cell greets us like a whispered secret.
It’s beautiful—like the rest of the house. A lie wrapped in velvet.
The walls are a cool taupe, smooth-textured and matte-finished, lined with thin slivers of bronze that catch the overhead light like quiet veins. No windows. No clocks. Just silence and soft air that smells faintly of sandalwood.
A chandelier hangs directly above the bed—not ornate, but modern and sleek. The light is gentle, ambient, diffused through glass teardrops that send ghost reflections across the floor. There's a plush armchair in the corner, rich mahogany leather, and a marble-topped side table beside it with a glass of water already placed.
Even the rug is handwoven.
And the bed—
It's king-sized, layered in ash-grey Egyptian cotton, a velvet throw tossed over the end like an afterthought. She lies on it, crumpled at an angle, one leg bent awkwardly under her, the other stretched toward the edge. Her body folds like it’s still bracing for impact.
Lira Falco.
I take a step closer.
Her hair spills across the pillow in inky curls, the kind that can’t be replicated in salons. Her cheek rests on her hand, lips parted just slightly, as if caught mid-breath. There’s a faint crease between her brows—like even in unconsciousness, she doesn’t trust the peace.
She’s still in the same clothes. Tight jeans. That burgundy top clinging to her.. The hem is twisted slightly, exposing the smallest sliver of pale waist. She’s barefoot now. Her ankles look thin.
I glance to Matteo. “She fought?”
“She nearly made it to the exit.”
“Of course she did.” I smile faintly. “I wouldn’t have bothered with her if she didn’t have teeth.”
He hands me the tablet.
I scroll through the dossier. It’s all here—her life pressed into digital ink.
Lira M. Falco.
Born in Naples. Moved to Australia at nine.
Scholarship to the Conservatorium. Top of her class. A rising name in competitive music.
And then: the spiral. Her mother’s death. Her brother’s, shortly after.
Collapse. Withdrawal.
