Zaria opened the door.
Not because she trusted him. Not because she wanted to.
Because if she didn't, he'd break it down—or worse, she'd never sleep again.
Ares stood there in the dim hallway light, dressed in a black T-shirt and loose pants like he'd been up all night. Or maybe he never slept. The man had the energy of a storm waiting to happen.
His eyes dropped to her hand.
"You're holding something. What are you holding"he asked
Zaria blinked. She hadn't realized she was still clutching the photo. Her fingers were white around the edges, crumpling it. She stepped back before he could reach for it.
"Don't."
Ares raised a brow. "Someone's been here."
"No shit," she muttered.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't press. "Let me see it."
"I don't take orders."
"This isn't a game, Zaria."
"No, it's not. But you treat me like a pawn, and then act surprised when I don't play nice."
He sighed—slow, controlled, like he was trying not to snap. "You're angry. That's fine. But hiding information? That'll get you killed."
She shoved the photo into his hand.
"Happy?"
Ares studied it for a beat. His face gave nothing away. But she saw it—just for a second—his thumb paused on her father's face. And when he flipped it and read the message scrawled on the back, something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise.
Recognition.
"You know what this is, don't you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Zaria stepped closer. "Who are those other men? Are they still alive?"
Still nothing.
"You're seriously going to stand there and pretend like you don't know what this means?" she snapped.
"I didn't say that."
"Then say something real, Ares. Just once."
He handed the photo back. "One of the men is called Vico Meretti. The other… I don't know. Might've been a handler."
"Handler?" she repeated, voice low.
"Your father wasn't just an accountant or a courier. He was a bridge. Between families. Between deals. When things got ugly, he cleaned the mess quietly. When things went sideways, he picked a side."
Zaria's throat felt tight. "And which side did he pick?"
"He picked you." Ares said. "That's why he died."
Her chest cracked a little at that. The kind of crack that lets in fire.
Ares stepped into her room now, and she didn't stop him. He walked to the window, inspecting the latch. Then he checked the balcony.
"Clean. No footprints. No scent markers."
"Scent markers?" she repeated.
He didn't bother explaining.
Just turned back to her with a look that said get dressed.
---
Fifteen minutes later, they were back in the car. Same driver. Same bulletproof glass.
Only this time, the tension between them was jagged.
Zaria folded her arms. "Where are we going now? Another grave?"
"No," Ares replied. "To the man who used to work with your father."
She frowned. "You just said the second guy in the photo might be a handler."
"Not him. Someone else."
They drove through parts of the city Zaria had never seen from this angle—dark warehouses, shuttered clubs, docks with no names. This wasn't tourist territory. This was where power wore no suit, and death had no headlines.
The car finally stopped outside a rusted gate, barely held together by chains and a prayer.
Ares got out, nodded at a camera hidden under the awning.
A moment later, the gate buzzed open.
Inside, an old man with a silver beard and a scar that cut through his lip sat on a folding chair. He didn't stand when he saw them. Just flicked a cigarette onto the ground and ground it out with his boot.
"Valentino," the man rasped. "Didn't expect you to come crawling."
Zaria stayed behind Ares, but her gaze didn't drop.
The man noticed.
"She's got your father's eyes," he said.
Ares didn't reply.
The man laughed softly. "What's the girl's name?"
"Zaria Etan."
The name landed like a stone.
The old man leaned forward. "Etan had balls. And secrets. Big ones."
Zaria finally stepped forward. "Do you know what he left behind?"
The man grinned at her, teeth yellow. "Of course. But the question is—why would I tell you?"
"Because people are dying," she snapped.
He looked at Ares. "She's got fire."
"She's got more than that," Ares said.
There was silence. Tense. Waiting.
Then the man stood, walked slowly to a filing cabinet that looked like it hadn't been opened in years. He pulled something out. An envelope—dusty, sealed with red wax.
He handed it to Zaria. "Your father told me to give this to you. But only if someone came looking for his name in blood."
Zaria stared at the wax. It was cracked slightly. Like someone else had tried to open it.
"Was this tampered with?" she asked.
The man didn't answer.
"You waited years to hand this over," Ares said tightly.
"Because I was told to," the man shot back. "And because I'm still alive, unlike the rest of his friends."
Zaria opened the envelope carefully.
Inside: a small USB drive. A folded note.
"If you're reading this, I'm already dead. There are things I couldn't tell you, Zaria. But now you have to decide: run, or finish what I started."
She stared at the note until the words blurred.
---
Back in the car, Zaria didn't speak.
Not until they were halfway home.
Then: "If I plug this in… and there's something dangerous on that drive…"
"There will be," Ares said.
"Will you help me?"
He looked over at her. His eyes weren't soft. But they weren't cold, either.
"I already am."