---
Eva's pencil dropped from her hand.
The sound was so small—barely the clink of wood against the desk—but in the dead hush of her apartment it rang like a bell. She stared at the page in front of her, heart thudding. Her brother's name stared back at her, circled twice, etched like a brand in graphite.
She hadn't written it consciously. She hadn't thought of him—no, that was a lie. She thought of him all the time. But writing it like that, urgent, desperate, as though she were trying to pull him back from whatever abyss had swallowed him…
Eva pressed her palms against her eyes until fireworks burst across her vision.
Get it together.
Her apartment felt too small, too silent, too heavy with ghosts. The vial of crushed lapis shimmered on the desk like a blue ember, whispering of all the things she didn't understand yet—why Luca had handed it to her, why the Morettis wanted it, why every step deeper into this forged world felt like stepping into quicksand.
She shoved back her chair. The legs scraped against the floor. The sound grounded her, if only for a moment.
Then her phone buzzed.
Eva snatched it up. A message. Unknown number.
DON'T TRUST THE FRAME.
No name. No context.
Her blood went cold.
---
****
Palazzo Moretti
The villa was a fortress dressed in silk. White marble halls stretched beneath vaulted ceilings painted with faded saints and battle scenes, a cathedral carved into a mansion. And at the very heart of it, Luca Moretti stood at his father's side, watching power being brokered in whispers.
The guests were men in tailored suits, women dripping with emeralds, diplomats whose smiles were daggers. They had come under the guise of an art exhibition, but everyone knew it was theater. The real deals happened behind locked doors.
Luca's father, Don Vittorio Moretti, moved through the crowd like a lion in his savanna. Every handshake was a leash. Every nod, a command.
And Luca—dutiful son, heir apparent—followed.
His jaw ached from the weight of his smile. His ribs tightened with every word his father spoke about legacy and family and loyalty.
But all he could think of was Eva.
The way her fingers had trembled when she'd taken the vial. The storm in her eyes. The sketchbook she'd tried to hide.
He knew he should cut her loose. She was dangerous—maybe even lethal—to what he was building.
And yet, when the crowd blurred into faceless shadows, hers was the only face he could still see.
---
***
Eva
Eva bolted her windows, checked the locks twice, then three times. The message still burned on her screen.
Don't trust the frame.
Which frame?
Her mind darted to the Vermeer forgery she had nearly finished. The empty stretcher leaning against her wall. The sketches.
But no—this wasn't just about her work. It was about something else. Something older, darker.
She opened her laptop and began digging. Church archives. Stolen art registers. Auction records buried in the digital catacombs. She followed threads until her eyes blurred, until her coffee went cold.
And then—
A name.
The Codex Obscura.
Her pulse stuttered. She'd heard whispers of it before—an illuminated manuscript lost during the Napoleonic wars, rumored to contain maps encoded in pigments, hidden across religious paintings.
And one of the pigments was lapis.
Her brother had been obsessed with the Codex before he disappeared.
Now Luca had handed her a vial of the same stone.
Eva pushed back from the desk, breath shallow.
The threads were knotting into a noose.
---
Midnight — A Rooftop Across the Piazza
Julian adjusted the red-lens camera, the barrel of his scope gleaming under the moon.
Through the glass across the piazza, he could see Eva pacing. Her movements were sharp, restless, the way his sister used to move before she relapsed.
Julian's throat tightened. He shouldn't care. She was just another pawn in a game that was older than either of them. But the longer he watched her, the more the edges blurred.
He typed another message into the burner phone.
IF YOU DIG, THEY WILL BURY YOU. STOP.
He hesitated before sending it.
Then, jaw clenched, he pressed send.
---
***
Palazzo Moretti
The party had dissolved into shadows and empty glasses.
Luca stood on the balcony, the cool air slicing through his starched collar. Below, Rome glittered like a broken crown, its streets winding like veins.
He should have felt powerful. Instead he felt like a man chained in velvet.
"Your mind is elsewhere," Don Vittorio's voice rumbled behind him.
Luca stiffened. "Just the deals, Father. There's much to consider."
The Don stepped closer, his presence heavy as stone. "Do not lie to me. You're thinking of her."
Luca's pulse spiked. "She's useful. That's all."
His father's eyes, dark as oil, narrowed. "Useful tools are disposable. Remember that."
Luca forced a nod. But inside, something cracked.
Because for the first time in years, he wasn't sure he wanted to be the tool his father had forged.
---
Eva's Apartment, 3 A.M.
A knock at the door.
Eva froze.
Three sharp raps. Not the friendly kind. The kind that announced power.
She grabbed the nearest thing—a palette knife—and edged toward the door.
"Who is it?" Her voice wavered.
Silence.
Then: "It's me."
Luca.
Her gut twisted.
She should slam the door. She should tell him to go to hell. Instead, against every instinct screaming at her, she opened it.
He stood there in a dark coat, rain glistening on his shoulders, eyes haunted.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed.
"And yet, here I am." He brushed past her, filling the small apartment with too much presence. His gaze swept the desk, the sketches, the glowing vial of lapis.
Her pulse thundered. "What do you want?"
"To warn you."
She laughed, brittle. "You? Warn me? You're the one dragging me into this mess."
Luca's jaw tightened. "Eva, you don't understand. The Codex… if my family thinks you're close to finding it—"
"I am close." The words burst out before she could stop them.
Luca turned, eyes sharp. "What did you find?"
Eva swallowed. Her brother's name burned on the page behind him. She couldn't tell him everything. Not yet.
"Enough to know I don't trust you," she said instead.
Luca stepped closer, voice low, dangerous. "Then trust this—if you stay alone, you will die. My father will see to it."
Her throat tightened. The air between them was knife-edge thin. She hated him. She wanted him. She didn't know where one ended and the other began.
Finally, she whispered, "Get out."
For a long moment, Luca didn't move. His eyes searched hers, something unspoken flickering there.
Then, without a word, he left.
Eva sank to the floor, shaking.
She didn't notice the red-lens camera blinking from the roof
top across the piazza.
---
End of Chapter 4
---