Page 40 of Fire and Silk

The account.

The one I’ve wired five thousand to, month after month—quietly, secretly. It’s not a normal checking account. It’s under both our names. A vault-style account, the kind you use to keep family heirlooms and sensitive documents. And I always check it. Every week.

She hasn’t touched a cent.

Not a single withdrawal.

I thought she was ignoring me. I thought she was doing it on purpose, punishing me with silence. But now—

Now I’m not so sure.

I clear my throat. “Can I see the letter?”

Nicola blinks at me, sniffles, then walks across the living room to the small table beneath the wall calendar. She grabs her phone, unlocks it, and passes it to me without a word.

The screen is already pulled up to the image.

I look down.

It’s neat. A few lines scribbled across lined paper. "I’ve gone back to Italy. I need time away. Don’t worry."

I stare at it. My grip tightens on the phone.

It’s almost perfect. Whoever wrote this took great care—angled the loops just right, slanted the letters like she would.

But it isn’t her.

I know her handwriting. I read enough of her letters back when she still believed in writing to me. Her capital Ls were always a little exaggerated, a leftover habit from childhood calligraphy class. Her lowercase t's—she never crossed them all the way. This note has crisp lines.

She didn’t write this.

“Not her,” I murmur, eyes still on the screen. “This… isn’t her hand.”

She didn’t have anyone in Italy.

No extended family. No distant aunt or cousin to crash with. Her entire bloodline had been cut down piece by piece. First her mother. Then Marco. Italy was a graveyard, not a destination. No way in hell she would’ve gone back.

So, whoever wrote that letter was counting on no one looking deeper.

I promised Nicola I’d find her. I meant every word of it.

But I can’t leave Nicola here.

This place isn’t secure. It's loud, poorly insulated. Neighbors close, walls thin, no real locks. Anyone with enough intent could force their way in before she ever had time to scream. And now that she’s asking questions, the wrong people might be watching.

“I need you to leave this apartment,” I say quietly.

She turns, red-eyed and sharp-tongued, her voice already rising.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? Where do you expect me to go? I just renewed rent! You think I have money sitting around?”

I reach into my coat and pull out my checkbook. I flip it open against my knee and scrawl the numbers cleanly, with precision. I tear the slip, lean forward, and place it on the small, wobbly table between us.

She looks down.

“Five grand,” I say. “An agent I trust will come by tomorrow. He’ll show you some options. Pick whichever one you want. I’ll cover the rest.”

Nicola stares at me, her breath unsteady, fingers twitching at her sides. “Why are you doing this, I just want Lira back?”