Rain drummed on the windshield like impatient fingers.
The man stepped out of the shadows of the Moreno garden without leaving a single footprint on the soaked ground. He slid into the black car parked further down the road, closed the door with a muted thud, and held his breath, as if even the air could betray him.
A low growl escaped his throat, that familiar sound that came whenever he realized he had crossed an invisible line.
"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered, hitting the steering wheel once with his palm.
The rain answered louder.
He ran a hand over his face, still smelling the house: marble, wood, salt and, beneath it, the most persistent scent of all: her.
Her fear. Her defiance. The fragile warmth of her breath.
"I was only supposed to warn her to stay away from her father," he said through his teeth, each word a reprimand. "And instead…"
He stopped, shaking his head. A single drop of rain slid down the side mirror like a full stop. He started the engine but didn't move.
In the reflection, two grey-green eyes stared back at him, eyes that had never trembled, not even when the sea closed over him like a lid. But now, something wavered behind them, a small fracture he couldn't explain.
"It won't happen again, Leo. Enough with this crap. This is work."
The words hung in the air, heavier than the dark.
A sharp beep came from the encrypted phone on the passenger seat. No message, just the signal: line secure, operation silent.
Leonardo Caruso turned off the display and finally shifted into gear.
The car disappeared into the rain.
The candle was still warm in Naiara's hand when the lights flickered back on, pushing the darkness away like a tide in reverse.
She realized she'd been holding her breath and exhaled in one shuddering gasp. The water in the indoor pool rippled as if disturbed by something unseen.
She set the candle down, then picked it up again, restless. She didn't want to stay there.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, crossed the long hallway, and reached her room.
Leaning against the door, she tried to breathe, four seconds in, six out, the rhythm she used when panic came too close.
Then she grabbed her phone and dialed Clara.
"Tell me you weren't asleep."
"Please, I was editing the gallery photos. What happened?"
"I need to tell you something."
A pause, then Clara's voice turned into a smile. "Is this about… Tigna?"
Naiara closed her eyes. "Mh mh."
"Holy hell," Clara said. "Ten minutes. I'm on my way."
Naiara couldn't stand still. She pulled on a hoodie and went downstairs. Her father's two men, the "sentinels," as she called them, were murmuring by the entryway.
"Everything all right, miss?" one asked.
"Yes, thank you," she lied.
Outside, the air smelled of wet earth and citrus; the storm had moved north, leaving only its breath behind.
She waited under the awning, arms crossed.
For a moment, she could almost hear that whisper again, Tigna, brushing the back of her neck. Her heart skipped.
She scolded herself, then smiled at her own weakness. Some nights simply refused to end.
The headlights of Clara's car cut through the damp air. Her friend jumped out, ran to her, and hugged her tight.
"Hey."
"Hey."
No more words. That embrace was enough.
"Up to your room," Clara said, following her inside, ignoring the curious glances of the guards. They closed the door and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, like the first day they had opened the gallery together.
"Okay," said Clara. "Start from the beginning. And don't skip the juicy parts."
Naiara took a long breath. "I was working downstairs. The lights went out. One of the men knocked and said power would be back soon. I lit a candle, and then…"
She stopped, searching for words.
"And then?"
"The flame went out. Not on its own. And I heard a voice. It was him. He told me to be quiet. He…"
She hesitated. "He called me Tigna again."
Clara made a noise between a gasp and a laugh. "Okay, so far this sounds like a dark fairytale. And then?"
"He asked me what I wanted. I asked who he was. He said I'd find out, but not now. That I should stay out of my father's business. It was a warning."
"Oh." Clara's voice lost its teasing edge. "And you?"
"I told him if I screamed, the guards would come running."
Clara's jaw dropped. "Wait! Wait! Did he actually respond with that caveman grunt thing you told me about?"
Naiara gave a half smile. "He did."
Clara collapsed backward onto the comforter. "No way. I can't… I'm dying! And you didn't do anything?!"
"I was scared."
Clara sat up, more serious. "I know. I get it. But listen, if he wanted to hurt you, he would've done it already, right? And didn't you say he stepped back when he saw you were afraid?"
Naiara nodded slowly. "Yes. And he warned me about my father. I think he knows things I don't."
"Of course he does," Clara said, throwing up her hands. "He works for him. Or around him."
Naiara rubbed the bridge of her nose, the gesture she always made when her mind was a mess.
"Yeah, but he's not like the others. He's different. I don't know how to explain it. He seems…"
"Like someone who knows what he's doing, Nay!" Clara interrupted, lifting an eyebrow, grin spreading. "He's into you, and you're into him. It's written all over you! If I were you, I'd give him a spin on the hamster wheel."
Naiara gasped in mock outrage, then both burst out laughing, real, unstoppable laughter that wiped the tension from the room.
When they finally caught their breath, Naiara said quietly, "I don't know if I can trust him. I barely know who he is."
Clara's tone softened. "You've known your father your whole life, and he still hides things from you. That doesn't mean he doesn't love you… it just means love and truth don't always go together."
She paused. "People are complicated, Nay. Sometimes they protect you the wrong way. Sometimes they hurt you thinking they're keeping you safe. And sometimes they come out of the dark and you can't tell if they're danger or salvation. But listen to that part of you that survived. It usually knows."
Naiara stayed silent. The words settled over her like a blanket.
"There's something else," she said after a while. "For a second, I saw him. A flash. His eyes."
"What about them?"
"Grey, but with green inside, like the sea when it starts to storm. I've never seen eyes like that."
Clara smiled faintly. "You describe eyes like you describe paintings. You're so you."
"This thing isn't going anywhere," Naiara muttered.
"We'll see," Clara said, standing to grab two glasses of water. "Drink. Tomorrow we have a list of frames, flyers to approve, and that email to the supplier. Life goes on, even when a storm-eyed man whispers things you don't want to hear."
"Thank you," Naiara said.
"For what?"
"For reminding me that tomorrow still exists."
They sat in silence for a while, shoulders touching, listening to the rain easing outside. The storm was moving away, leaving a scent of wet earth and lemon blossoms.
"Stay here tonight?" Naiara asked.
"You live in a five-star villa, of course I'm staying," Clara said, laughing. "But set ten alarms. If we're late for the gallery tomorrow, I'm firing myself."
"Over my dead body," Naiara said, finally smiling for real.
Clara went to grab a blanket, then stopped by the window. "Your mom's lemon trees look like lanterns when it rains."
"She says she loves them because they smell good even when the day doesn't."
They stood side by side, watching the garden, letting silence do the talking.
As they turned back toward the bed, Clara spoke again, serious now. "Promise me one thing, Nay. If you hear that voice again, don't go downstairs alone. Call me. Call anyone. Or lock yourself in. Promise."
Naiara hesitated, then nodded. "I promise."
They slipped under the blanket, side by side, not like children, but like women who had already lived too much. The lights dimmed, the house humming softly around them.
Naiara knew sleep wouldn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that flash again: those grey-green eyes that held her like a question she couldn't answer.
"Clara?"
"Mh?"
"If I find out tomorrow that it wasn't in my head, that it was all real, will you stay?"
Clara reached out, found her hand, and squeezed. "I'll stay wherever you are."
Naiara smiled in the dark. She told herself she would stop thinking about him, that tomorrow she'd go back to her normal life: work, choose, breathe. Ignore the shadows until they decided what to do with her.
But one thought followed her past the edge of sleep: the voice in the dark, saying her name as if he had invented it for her.
Tigna.
She promised herself she wouldn't look for him. And knew, in the same heartbeat, that she already was.
Outside, a car moved slowly down the coastal road. Its headlights slipped between the lemon trees, then vanished.
The sea exhaled, steady and ancient.
Somewhere out there, a man drove with no music and no words, repeating to himself that he would never return, and already knowing it was a lie.