The door clicked shut behind Bianca, and the silence she left behind felt heavier than before. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The faint ticking of the clock on the far wall filled the quiet, measured and calm — much like the man behind the desk.
Then Marco broke it.
"Well," he said, exhaling as he stretched lazily in his seat, "that was awkward."
Lorenzo shot him a sharp look. "You could try having some restraint, for once."
"What?" Marco threw up his hands, feigning innocence. "I was just saying she's coming back. Raph looked like he'd seen a ghost—"
Raphael's voice cut through, low and steady. "That's enough, Marco."
Marco's grin dimmed a little. "Right. Sorry. Didn't mean to step on your frozen heart."
Lorenzo sighed. "Can we focus on the shipment now?"
They returned to business — briefly. The talk of trade routes, alliances, and under-the-table exchanges filled the room again. But beneath every word, there was a new kind of tension. Raphael said little, though his gaze lingered too long on the swirling amber liquid in his glass, as if trying to read something within it.
After a while, Lorenzo stood, straightening his jacket. "We'll finalize the southern contact tomorrow. Marco, let's go."
Marco rose slowly, still watching Raphael with that too-knowing glint. "You sure you'll be fine alone, Raph? No ghosts coming out of the piano room tonight?"
"Out," Raphael said flatly.
Marco chuckled, clapping his brother on the back as they left. The moment the door shut behind them, the air shifted — quieter, colder, heavier.
Raphael leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. The weight of silence pressed in. Then, as if pulled by a memory too strong to resist, he opened them again — and the study was gone.
The scent of scotch and gun oil faded, replaced by sunlight and laughter.
---
He was sixteen again. The garden outside his family's old villa glowed golden, and somewhere near the fountain, a girl in a white sundress chased after him.
"Raph! Wait for me!"
He turned slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. A tiny version of Elara Romano, maybe ten years old, was sprinting across the grass, hair flying, cheeks flushed. She carried something behind her back.
"What do you want, little shadow?" he teased, pretending to walk faster.
Her pout was immediate. "I told you not to call me that!"
He smirked. "Then stop following me."
"I'm not following you," she huffed, running faster until she caught up and blocked his path, eyes gleaming with triumph. "I wanted to give you this!"
From behind her back, she pulled out a small paper star — clumsily folded, painted silver, the corners uneven. She held it up to him with both hands, smiling shyly. "You said you like the stars, right? So I made one."
Raphael stared at it for a moment, caught off guard by the simplicity. "You made this?"
She nodded eagerly. "It's not perfect, but—"
"It's terrible," he interrupted, lips twitching.
Her face fell instantly, and he almost regretted it — almost. "You're mean!" she said, turning to run off.
He sighed softly, catching her wrist before she could bolt. "Hey," he said, his voice losing that edge. "It's terrible… but I like it."
She blinked up at him. "Really?"
"Really," he said, slipping the little paper star into his pocket. "You shouldn't run so fast. You'll fall, Starlight."
Her cheeks pinked at the nickname, and she smiled — wide and bright, brighter than the sun that day.
---
The memory faded, and the silence of the study returned like a cold wind.
Raphael opened his eyes, staring at the faint reflection of himself in the dark window.
He still remembered the small paper star — tucked away somewhere in a drawer he could never quite bring himself to open.
He had called her Starlight once, because she burned too brightly for his world of shadows.
And now, after three years… she was coming back.