The Dark Murder

Nowhere is Safe

The rain began to fall as they left the building, thick drops hitting the asphalt as if they wanted to erase the traces of the night. Monica didn’t speak. She needed silence so as not to collapse. Every fiber of her body was tense. She had brushed against murder. She had brushed against the truth. And Scorpioni was riding a black motorcycle, without a license plate. He handed her a helmet without saying anything. Monica put it on, climbed in behind him, and clung to the leather jacket that was already soaked with water. They crossed the city like shadows. Lapa, Gloria, Flamengo… then down toward the Baixada, where the police don’t venture out at night and the fires in the bins light up faces like in a post-apocalyptic movie. They arrived in front of an abandoned building, a former factory, broken glass and walls scratched with forgotten names. Scorpio got out first. “This is where they’re keeping her. But it won’t be easy to get in. There are armed men, and they’re not Brazilian. They spoke in Italian.” Monica stared at him, feeling the anger rising like lava. “They’re using her,” she said. “It’s possible. Or… they’re waiting for you.”

She pulled out her Beretta, checked the clip, and then holstered it. She had stopped shaking. She was ice now. “Tell me everything,” she said. Scorpio lit a cigarette, even though the rain was half-extinguishing it. “They have a plan. I don’t know what it is. But they won’t keep her here long. A week, maybe less. After that… she’ll disappear. Like she always does.” Monica looked at the lights inside the factory, distant, flickering. “A week,” she repeated. “No,” she said then. “Tonight.” And in her voice, there was no longer any trace of the woman who had run away. Only of the one who was coming back to destroy everything.

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