Chapter 33: The Race Against Time

Elena Vitiello POV

"We need to find her."

The words left my mouth before anyone else could speak.

"Now."

Dante was already moving.

Phone in hand.

Issuing orders.

The calm man from the safe house vanished instantly.

The Reaper returned.

"Marco."

"Already calling the teams."

"Federal contacts?"

"Moving."

"Private airfields?"

"Checking."

"Every camera within two hundred miles."

"On it."

The room exploded into activity.

Again.

Only this time the target wasn't Lorenzo.

It was my mother.

"How long ago was that video recorded?" I asked.

One of the analysts checked the metadata.

"Ninety-three days."

"Three months."

"Exactly."

"Can you trace the location?"

"Trying."

The analyst typed rapidly.

Screens flickered.

Maps appeared.

Coordinates loaded.

Then suddenly he froze.

"Got something."

Everyone looked up.

"Where?"

"Montana."

"What?"

"Small town."

"Outside Bozeman."

"That's where the recording originated."

Hope surged through me.

"Then she's there."

"Maybe."

"Maybe isn't good enough."

"It's all we have."

Dante immediately grabbed his jacket.

"We're leaving."

"Boss, that's twelve hundred miles."

"Then start the plane."

"Already done."

Marco was becoming disturbingly efficient.

Three hours later...

Private Airfield

The jet waited on the runway.

Federal agents.

Moretti soldiers.

Security personnel.

Everyone moving with frantic urgency.

Because Lorenzo had a head start.

And nobody knew how much.

"You should stay here," Dante said.

"No."

"Elena."

"No."

"It's dangerous."

"I'm aware."

"You could get hurt."

"I've noticed that's becoming a pattern."

His jaw tightened.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

For several seconds neither of us moved.

Then Dante sighed.

"Fine."

"That was easier than expected."

"I'm learning."

"Terrifying."

"For everyone involved."

Despite everything, a small smile appeared.

Only briefly.

Then reality returned.

The flight felt endless.

Nobody slept.

Nobody relaxed.

Every minute felt precious.

Every minute felt wasted.

Because somewhere out there...

My mother existed.

A real person.

Not a memory.

Not a photograph.

Not a grave.

A real person.

The realization still felt impossible.

"What was she like?" Dante asked quietly.

"What?"

"Your mother."

I looked out the window.

Clouds stretched endlessly beneath us.

"Kind."

"Strong."

"Stubborn."

"Beautiful."

"Sounds familiar."

"Don't."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"A little."

I rolled my eyes.

Dante actually smiled.

The sight still felt strange.

Almost unfamiliar.

"What was your favorite memory?"

The question hurt.

Because I hadn't allowed myself to remember in years.

"She used to sing."

"Sing?"

"Terribly."

"That bad?"

"Awful."

"And yet?"

"And yet she did it constantly."

A genuine laugh escaped him.

"That sounds brave."

"That sounds delusional."

"Maybe both."

"Probably both."

Silence settled comfortably between us.

Not awkward.

Not painful.

Just quiet.

A different kind of quiet than before.

Several hours later...

Montana

The town looked exactly like the kind of place someone would hide.

Small.

Peaceful.

Forgettable.

The kind of place nobody searched.

Snow covered the streets.

Mountains surrounded the valley.

Everything looked calm.

Which immediately made me nervous.

"Where to?" Marco asked.

"Address from the metadata," Dante replied.

"Already loaded."

The convoy moved through town.

Passing diners.

Gas stations.

Tiny shops.

Normal life.

The kind of life I always wanted.

Eventually the vehicles stopped.

A small white house stood at the edge of town.

Simple.

Ordinary.

Beautiful.

My heart started racing.

"This is it?"

"Looks like it."

"Movement inside," one agent announced.

Nobody breathed.

Nobody moved.

"Can you identify them?"

"Negative."

"Too much glare."

Dante looked toward me.

"Stay in the vehicle."

"Absolutely not."

"Elena—"

"No."

"Fine."

"That was fast."

"I'm tired."

The group approached carefully.

Weapons ready.

Eyes scanning.

The front door stood partially open.

Not a good sign.

Not at all.

"Something's wrong," Marco whispered.

"Agreed."

Dante moved first.

Slowly pushing the door wider.

The house was silent.

Too silent.

"Clear."

"Kitchen clear."

"Living room clear."

"Upstairs clear."

Room by room.

Nothing.

Nobody.

Until...

"Boss."

Marco's voice changed.

"You need to see this."

We followed him into a small study.

A laptop sat on the desk.

Still powered on.

Still running.

And beside it...

A photograph.

A recent photograph.

My mother.

Smiling.

Alive.

Taken less than a week ago.

My legs nearly gave out.

"Mom..."

Then I noticed the note beneath the photograph.

Three handwritten words.

Written in elegant script.

Waiting for us.

Waiting specifically for me.

The note read:

"You're too late."

And signed beneath it...

Lorenzo Moretti.