Page 2

The wall towers over me, and I welcome how small it makes me feel. Insignificant. Invisible. That’s the trick to surviving in a world like this: stay small enough to disappear.

But then, suddenly, everything changes.

The screech of tires tears through the stillness, sharp as a blade slicing skin. My brush freezes mid-stroke. My pulse skips, then slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Nobody’s stupid enough to come here at this hour,” I mutter under my breath.

I pull my headphones off, and the silence that follows is suffocating. It presses on, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Then I see them.

Two vans, the engines humming low and ominous, the windows blacked out. Behind them, there was a polished and gleaming sleek black SUV, the kind of car that had been custom-built to scream both money and menace.

Three men step out and start to unload something from one van and shift it into the other. From where I’m standing, hidden in the deepest shadows of this decrepit building, I can’t make out what it is. But I don’t need to see it to know. Guys like that only move products in the dead of night for three reasons: drugs, weapons, or people.

I stay frozen, watching, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My fingers still itch to grab the brush and finish the mural, but I know better. I’ve seen enough of this world to recognize its danger, even if it’s only a glimpse.

From the angle I’m at, I’m cloaked in the dark, and there’s no way they can spot me. I picked this place for its shadows and the way they cling to the walls like a second skin. It’s perfect for my work.

Perfect for staying invisible.

The city is my canvas. Every abandoned building, alley, and cracked wall is a story waiting to be told. By sunrise, my mark will be here, too, for anyone who cares enough to notice. A bloody dagger clenched in a bleeding hand—the signature I leave behind. My calling card.

It’s reckless, I know. Dangerous even. But the risk is the point. It’s the thrill of making something loud in a city that would rather I stay quiet.

I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon too. It’s not about defiance. Or maybe it is. If I’m being honest, I’m not ready to admit why I do it. Maybe it’s something darker, something restless inside me. A gnawing emptiness that keeps dragging me back to these empty streets at night like a moth drawn to the flame, even though I know full well how it ends.

My fingers twitch, itching to finish the mural, but I can’t. Not with them so close. I stay hidden, my breath shallow as I watch from a distance.

I can’t make out what they’re saying, and frankly, I don’t care to. It’s better not to know.

I’m not stupid. I know what will happen if they spot me here…and it’s not a slap on the wrist. It’s a bullet.

They’re arguing now, and it’s heated. I bet someone’s night is about to take a sharp turn south.

Then, a car door slams. The sound is like a trigger, and the shift in the air is immediate as a figure steps out of the shadows.

I don’t need to hear a name. I know who it is.

Remo Callegari.

I know that face. Not from meeting him—God, no—but from whispers, headlines, and the kind of stories that make people lock their doors at night. He’s the mafia’s enforcer, the kind of man you don’t just cross. You don’t even look at him wrong if you value breathing.

Tall, sharp-suited, and carved from stone, it’s as if humanity’s been stripped from him.

Every step he takes is deliberate and calculated. The sound of his shoes against the concrete is barely heard, but it cuts through everything. He moves toward the table piled high with crates filled with guns. Big ones. Military-grade. The kind you can’t just buy at any shop.

My chest tightens. This is looking more and more like a bad situation.

One of the men cracks a joke after their argument, and the others laugh. The sound of their laughter shatters the quiet, but Remo doesn’t even flinch or join in. His eyes stay focused on the crates and the men as if he’s dissecting every move they make. Then, he flicks his wrist, a simple gesture, and another man in a leather jacket steps forward and cracks open one of the other sealed crates.

The gleam of even bigger rifles under the dim light makes my breath catch.

“It’s all there, Boss. I told you I wouldn’t screw up this time.”

“How kind of you to clean up your mess after losing me millions, Davide,” Remo says, his voice flat.

The guy stumbles over his words but tries to cover it up with a shaky laugh. “Look, I’m sorry about that, okay? I swear. But my girl…she was in the hospital. I had to put down money to keep her and the baby alive. It wasn’t good, Boss.”