Genoa, Italy – 1951
The morning after the black cars passed, the city felt different — quieter, as if it were holding its breath. The air was thick with mist from the sea, curling through the narrow alleys like smoke. Bells tolled somewhere beyond the harbor, their sound carrying low and mournful across the rooftops.
Sofia rose before dawn. Sleep had been impossible; her thoughts kept circling the same name — Jans — the same family whispered about by merchants, sailors, and beggars alike. The family that owned the docks, the shipping fleets, the warehouses. The family that, some said, could make a man vanish as easily as erasing a line of ink.
She stepped out into the street, her coat drawn tightly around her, and began walking toward the port. The cobblestones were slick beneath her feet, the smell of tar and salt heavy in the air. Men were already at work loading crates, shouting orders, their voices echoing off the water.
She passed a stack of barrels marked R.J. Group and paused. A man nearby noticed her glance and spat into the gutter.
"Don't stare too long, signorina," he muttered. "Those letters have eyes."
Sofia looked at him, startled. "What do you mean?"
He only shrugged and turned away.
She felt it again then — that prickling on the back of her neck, the sense of being watched. She turned quickly, but there was nothing there. Only the endless maze of docks, the fog, and the sound of gulls crying overhead.
---
At noon, the café was busier than ever. Men spoke in hurried tones about contracts, taxes, and rumors of an internal war within the Jans empire. The owner, old Signor Marino, kept turning up the radio, trying to drown out the gossip, but the whispers only grew louder.
Sofia moved through the tables, tray in hand, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't stop replaying the glimpse of Marco in the car, the warning letters, the voice of the man with the scar.
By the time evening fell, she was restless.
"I'm going out," she told Bianca.
"Out where?" her friend asked. "It's nearly dark."
"Just a walk," Sofia lied.
Bianca frowned. "You've been walking a lot lately. Be careful, Sofia. Genoa isn't kind after sundown."
Sofia nodded but left anyway. She followed the winding streets until the hum of the city faded behind her and the sound of the sea returned. Near the docks, under the flickering light of a streetlamp, a small crowd had gathered.
Music drifted through the damp air — an accordion, soft and melancholy. A young woman was performing, her dark hair tied in a ribbon, her hands moving with grace as she made the worn instrument sing. Coins clinked into her tin cup, and she smiled between verses, but her eyes — sharp, knowing — scanned the faces around her like a thief counting guards.
When the song ended, Sofia dropped a few coins into the cup. "That was beautiful," she said softly.
The woman's smile widened. "You're not from here."
"No," Sofia admitted. "I came from San Loreno."
"Ah." The woman nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then you must have come looking for something. People don't come to Genoa unless they've lost something first."
Sofia hesitated. "Maybe both."
The woman studied her a moment longer, then said, "My name's Lucia."
"Sofia."
Lucia's eyes flickered with recognition. "Sofia Martin?"
Sofia's breath caught. "How do you know my name?"
Lucia lowered her voice. "Because your name's been whispered in places it shouldn't be. You should be careful, cara mia. You've caught the attention of people who don't forgive curiosity."
"Who are you talking about?" Sofia asked.
Lucia looked around before answering. "The Jans family. And the men who clean up their shadows."
---
They sat together on a bench by the waterfront, the fog swirling around them. Lucia's hands moved nervously as she spoke.
"I used to work for them — not the family, but the men who carried their orders. I played at their parties, heard things I shouldn't have. There's talk now — of someone returning, someone who's supposed to take over the company. They say he was gone for years. Some think he's dead. Others think…"
Lucia trailed off, her gaze drifting toward the sea.
"Think what?" Sofia pressed.
"That he ran away from them. That he fell in love with a girl who wasn't supposed to exist."
Sofia's heart nearly stopped. "What was his name?"
Lucia looked at her sharply. "You already know."
Sofia swallowed hard. "Marco."
Lucia nodded slowly. "Marco Jans."
The words landed like thunder.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Sofia's thoughts scattered — Marco's letters, his sudden disappearance, the warnings, the wealth she had never understood.
He wasn't just hiding from his family. He was his family.
"I have to find him," she said finally, her voice trembling. "If he's in danger—"
Lucia grabbed her hand. "You don't understand. If you go looking for him, they'll find you first. The Jans men don't let go of their blood — or anyone tied to it."
Sofia met her gaze, tears stinging her eyes. "Then let them come. I won't stop."
Lucia stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're either very brave or very foolish."
"Maybe both," Sofia said quietly.
---
Over the next days, Lucia and Sofia became unlikely allies. Lucia taught her where to listen — in the markets, the taverns, the late-night freight stations where men spoke freely once the wine took hold.
Together, they pieced together fragments: a meeting at the Jans estate, a shipment delayed by sabotage, a name whispered — Aldo Jans, Marco's uncle, ruthless and cunning.
Rumor said he had been running the company in Marco's absence — and that he would do anything to keep it that way.
It was Lucia who suggested they go to the Old Customs House, an abandoned building near the harbor where old records were kept. "If Marco ever signed documents under the company's name, we might find proof he's alive," she said.
They went at dusk, when the fog rolled in thick and the lamps flickered weakly against it. The air inside the building was stale, filled with dust and the faint scent of salt. Papers lay scattered, drawers pried open long ago.
Lucia moved ahead with a lantern. "Check the cabinets by the wall."
Sofia knelt, her fingers brushing over old shipping ledgers. She found one stamped with the company's seal — R.J. Group, 1948. Her heart skipped.
Inside, beneath the signatures, she found it: Marco Jans.
Proof.
"He was here," she whispered.
But before Lucia could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Sofia froze.
The lantern flickered. Shadows moved along the walls — two, maybe three men, their voices low.
Lucia grabbed her arm. "We have to go. Now."
They slipped through the back door, running down a narrow alley that led to the water. The footsteps followed — closer, faster.
Sofia's breath came in gasps. She clutched the ledger to her chest as they darted through the fog. The harbor lights blurred ahead of them like ghosts.
When they reached the pier, Lucia pushed her behind a stack of crates. "Stay here."
"What are you doing?" Sofia whispered.
"Buying us time."
Before Sofia could stop her, Lucia stepped out, facing the men who had followed. Their voices carried faintly through the fog.
"Looking for someone, signori?" Lucia's tone was calm, even mocking.
One of the men replied sharply in dialect. Sofia couldn't make out the words, only the sound — the kind of sound men made before violence.
Then came a scuffle, the crash of wood, and Lucia's voice — low, defiant.
Sofia wanted to run to her, but heavy hands grabbed her from behind.
"Got you," a voice hissed in her ear.
She struggled, kicking, clawing, but the grip was iron. The ledger slipped from her fingers and fell into the water.
The man holding her whispered, "Forget what you saw. Forget the name Jans."
And then — just as quickly — he let her go.
Sofia stumbled forward, gasping. When she looked up again, the men were gone. The fog swallowed everything.
She ran toward where Lucia had been. There was no one there. Only the sound of the waves lapping against the pier.
On the ground, she found Lucia's ribbon — torn, stained with blood.
---
By dawn, Sofia was back in her room, shaking. The candle on her table had burned to nothing. She sat with her head in her hands, the scent of salt still clinging to her clothes.
Marco's name, the company, the men in the fog — they were all pieces of the same storm. And now Lucia was gone because of her.
She opened the window, letting the cold morning air wash over her.
Down by the docks, workers were already loading crates again — as if nothing had happened. The city went on, indifferent.
But Sofia knew better now.
The City of Glass was cracking.
And beneath it, shadows moved — powerful, patient, and ready to break anyone who reached for the truth.
---