📍Italy

If someone had told me six months ago that a random evening in Rome would change the course of my life, I would've laughed in their face.

Not because I didn't believe in fate.

I did.

I just never expected fate to arrive wearing a black shirt and driving an expensive car.

The journalism conference had ended an hour ago, but the excitement still buzzed beneath my skin. My press badge hung around my neck as I stepped out of the historic building, clutching my notebook beneath my arm. Around me, Rome glowed beneath the setting sun. The city looked exactly like every postcard I'd ever seen and somehow even more beautiful.

I should've been paying attention to the scenery.

Instead, I was arguing with a taxi app.

"No available drivers."

I stared at the screen.

Refreshed it.

Then refreshed it again.

Nothing.

"Wonderful."

A frustrated sigh escaped me.

"I travel across continents only to lose a fight against transportation."

The elderly Italian woman passing beside me chuckled.

At least someone found my suffering entertaining.

I shoved my phone into my bag and glanced around. Maybe I could walk back to the hotel. It wasn't that far.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Just few kilometers. Few kilometers

Okay, I had absolutely no idea.

I was still debating my survival plan when a sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of me.

The tinted window lowered slowly.

"Need a ride?"

I looked toward the driver.

Then immediately regretted it.

Not because he looked dangerous.

Because he looked interesting.

And interesting people were always trouble.

The man couldn't have been older than thirty eight. Dark hair. Sharp features. Calm eyes. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or police investigation boards. There was something strangely unreadable about him.

Most people wore their emotions openly.

This man looked like he locked his inside a vault.

"No, thank you," I replied automatically.

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

"You've been trying to book a taxi for twelve minutes."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Twelve minutes."

My grip tightened around my notebook.

"Have you been watching me?"

"A journalist should ask better questions."

My journalist instincts immediately sat up.

That wasn't an answer.

That was a dodge.

And people only dodged questions when they had something to hide.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

"How do you know I'm a journalist?"

His gaze briefly dropped toward my conference badge.

Right.

Fair enough.

I felt slightly stupid.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if he'd noticed.

Which was annoying.

"Relax," he said. "I'm not planning to kidnap you."

"That's exactly what a kidnapper would say."

For the first time, he laughed.

It wasn't loud.

Just enough to make me unexpectedly curious.

The silence that followed felt strange. Not awkward. Just deliberate.

Like he was observing me.

Studying me.

Waiting.

Eventually, curiosity won.

It usually did.

I opened the passenger door and slid inside.

The car smelled faintly of leather and coffee.

The expensive kind.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Rome passed outside the window in a blur of lights and ancient architecture.

Then he spoke.

"You ask a lot of questions."

I snorted.

"Occupational hazard."

"You've always been like that?"

I turned toward him.

Something in his tone made my stomach tighten.

"What does that mean?"

Instead of answering, he asked, "How many occupations or job preferences have you abandoned because you had no idea about that certain topic?"

The question caught me off guard.

Journalists weren't usually the ones being interviewed.

"More than I'd like."

His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel.

Almost thoughtfully.

"That's unfortunate."

"What is?"

"You know... to get a best job, A person must know his worth. And his situations"

I frowned.

There was something oddly specific about the way he said it.

As if he wasn't speaking generally.

As if he had something particular in mind.

Before I could ask, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black card.

No logo.

No name.

No company details.

Just an address.

I stared at it.

"What is this?"

"A location."

"Obviously."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face.

"Be there tomorrow evening."

My eyebrows shot upward.

"Why?"

"Do you like stories?"

I looked from the card to him.

"Yes but why does it even matters?"

"I think you'll find this one interesting."

That was it.

No explanation.

No details.

Nothing.

Every warning bell in my head should have been screaming.

Instead, curiosity whispered louder.

"What kind of story?"

The man glanced toward me.

For the first time, something unreadable flashed through his eyes.

Not danger.

Not kindness.

Just certainty.

"The kind people spend their whole lives working for... Money."

The car stopped outside my hotel.

I looked down at the card again.

Then back at him.

"You're unbelievably mysterious."

"I've been told."

"You could just explain things like a normal person."

"And ruin the mystery?"

I rolled my eyes.

Yet despite myself, I smiled.

The man nodded toward the hotel entrance.

"Goodnight, Ms. Vanya."

I froze.

I had never told him my name.

Before I could ask how he knew it, the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the Roman traffic.

Leaving me standing beneath the city lights.

Holding a black card.

And far more questions than answers.

The worst part?

I already knew I was going to that address.

Next Evening

The room feels heavier the moment I step inside.

It isn't the kind of heaviness you can explain easily. Nothing is physically wrong. The lights are normal, the air is fine, the people are sitting calmly. And yet something in the atmosphere makes me hyper-aware of every breath I take.

Eight strangers sit around a long table.

All of them look different. Different ages, different styles, different expressions. But they all share one thing.

They are watching me.

Like I'm not new here.

Like I'm expected.

I shift slightly, gripping my bag tighter.

"This is a mistake," I say again, firmer this time. "I don't know what you think I'm doing here, but I'm not part of any-whatever this is."

The man from yesterday stands a few steps away from me, hands in his pockets, completely calm. Like my panic is just another normal reaction he has already calculated.

"It isn't a mistake," he says again.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "You keep saying that like it makes it true."

One of the other men at the table leans back in his chair. "Looks like she doesn't even know what we're here for."

A woman across from him crosses her arms. "Good. Then she should leave and maybe I should too."

That sentence actually helps me breathe a little.

Finally, someone sane.

I turn slightly toward the exit. "I agree with her."

But the man at the door- him -doesn't move.

He simply says, "Sit."

It isn't loud.

It isn't harsh.

But it stops me anyway.

I hate that it does.

I don't sit immediately. I hold his gaze for a few seconds longer, trying to find something in it. A sign of manipulation. A crack in confidence. Anything that tells me I should run.

But there's nothing.

Only certainty.

Slowly, against my better judgment, I take a seat at the edge of the table.

A mistake.

I can already feel it.

Silence spreads across the room for a moment before he finally speaks again.

"This isn't a meeting," he says. "And it isn't a proposal."

I frown. "Then what is it?"

A pause.

Then he says something that makes the room feel even quieter.

"It's a story that hasn't happened yet."

I blink. "That makes no sense."

"It will," he replies.

One of the others scoffs. "We've already said no."

Another voice joins in. "All of us."

I glance around quickly.

Eight people.

All shaking their heads in agreement.

My brows furrow slightly, but I don't interrupt yet.

The man finally walks closer to the table and places both hands on its surface. For the first time since I met him, he looks like he's not just observing a situation.

He's controlling it.

"Let me tell you something," he says.

No one speaks.

Even I don't.

"When stories are written," he continues, "they don't begin with action. They begin with people. People who are not supposed to meet. People who are not supposed to agree. People who all believe they are in control of their own choices."

"I am here by accident," I say immediately.

A faint pause.

Then he says, "No. You are here because you have a situation. This is a golden opportunity for all of you . I am not your enemy neither your friend. All I am is a helping hand for you all."

I open my mouth to argue.

Nothing comes out.

He continues, "Eight of you are sitting here because you already said no."

A woman immediately speaks up. "We said no because it's insane."

Another nods. "We're not criminals."

A few voices overlap in agreement.

The word hangs in the air.

Criminals.

My chest tightens.

I stand up immediately. "Okay, no. I don't know what you think this is, but I am not part of anything illegal. And What is all this conversation even about??"

This time, no one stops me.

But his voice follows anyway.

"You already are part of it. A key part... We are planning a HEIST," he says calmly.

I freeze.

Slowly, I turn back.

"What does that mean?"

He doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walks to a side table and picks up a thin black file.

He places it in front of me.

The sound it makes when it touches the table is soft.

But it feels loud.

"Open it," he says.

I don't move.

"I said I'm not involved in anything," I repeat.

"I know," he replies. "That's why you will open it alone."

My brows furrow. "Alone?"

"Yes."

A pause.

Then he adds, "Because right now, you'll say no."

My jaw tightens.

"That's not very convincing."

"It's not meant to convince you," he says. "It's meant to show you."

Something about that sentence unsettles me more than anything else today.

I look at the file.

Then at the eight people around the table.

All of them uncomfortable.

All of them already against it.

All of them also had a file.

And somehow, I'm still the one being watched the most.

I pick up the file slowly.

"I'm not promising anything," I say firmly.

"No one is asking you to," he replies.

I hesitate one last second.

Then I turn and walk out.

The hallway outside is quiet.

Too quiet.

As I left the room, Other 7 people left with me too with the files in their hand.

I don't open the file immediately.

I waited until I reach my hotel room.

Until the door is locked.

Until I'm alone.

And only then do I place it on the table next to my bed.

My fingers hover over it.

Something in my chest tightens.

"This is a bad idea," I whisper.

But I wanted to open it anyway.

My focus remained fixed on the black file lying on the table in front of me.

The file that the guy wanted me to see. All Alone.

The file that had somehow snatched my sleep.

The digital clock beside the bed glowed 10:17 PM.

I should have been asleep by now. This all drama should not be my concern.

Instead, I sit barefoot on the carpet, wrapped in an oversized sweater, staring at the file as if it might explode.

A strange feeling settled in my chest.

Uneasiness.

Curiosity.

Fear.

All mixed together.

Taking a deep breath, I reached forward.

My fingers brushed against the cover.

"Stop being dramatic, Vanya."

I muttered to myself.

My voice sounded small in the massive hotel suite.

The room felt colder than before.

With one final breath, I opened the file.

Several papers lay neatly inside.

Most of it looked like medical paperwork.

Hospital documents.

Assessment forms.

Technical terms.

My eyebrows furrowed.

Medical files?

What was so secretive about medical files?

Confused, I turned another page.

Something slipped free.

A photograph.

It landed on my lap.

I frowned.

Then picked it up.

The second my eyes landed on the picture, the air left my lungs

I stopped breathing.

Completely.

For a moment, I genuinely forgot how.

My fingers tightened around the photograph.

"No..."

The whisper escaped before I realized I had spoken.

My heart began pounding violently.

Mom.

It was my mother.

I stared at the picture in disbelief.

My brain refusing to process what my eyes were seeing.

Why was Mom's picture here?

Why was her photograph inside a hidden file?

What was going on?

A thousand questions crashed into my head at once.

The photograph looked recent.

Very recent.

Not one from before the accident.

Not one from family albums.

Not one I had seen before.

This had clearly been taken recently.

My hands started shaking.

Mom lay on a hospital bed.

Machines surrounded her.

Monitors blinked beside her.

White sheets covered her body.

Her eyes remained closed.

Just like they had been for the past three years.

The sight hit me harder than I expected.

Three years.

Three years and I still wasn't used to seeing her like that.

Three years and it still felt wrong.

Painfully wrong.

A knot formed in my throat.

I swallowed hard.

It didn't help.

My vision blurred.

I blinked rapidly.

Trying to stop the tears.

Trying to stay focused.

Because right now, confusion was stronger than grief.

Why was her picture here?

My eyes immediately dropped to the documents.

Suddenly every page mattered.

Every word mattered.

Every single line.

I placed the photograph carefully beside me and started reading.

The further I read, the faster my heartbeat became.

Medical evaluations.

Neurological reports.

Brain activity scans.

Treatment recommendations.

Specialist consultations.

Pages and pages of information.

At first, nothing made sense.

The terminology was complicated.

Professional.

Difficult to understand.

But slowly certain phrases began standing out.

And every time they did, my heart beat harder.

Possible recovery from Coma.

Positive neurological response.

Advanced treatment program.

Potential rehabilitation.

Recovery chances remain present.

I blinked.

Then read the sentence again.

And again.

And again.

My chest tightened.

No.

I had misunderstood.

I had to have misunderstood.

My eyes raced across the page.

Then the next one.

And the next.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too hot.

Too overwhelming.

Every report said the same thing.

Different words.

Same meaning.

My mother could recover.

My mother could wake up.

My mother could be treated.

I stared at the papers.

Unable to move.

Unable to think.

Unable to breathe.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

Then another.

Then another.

For three years, doctors had given me hope only to snatch it away.

For three years, every possibility had ended in disappointment.

But this-

This was different.

These weren't assumptions.

These weren't guesses.

These were reports.

Evaluations.

Medical opinions.

Evidence.

Hope.

Actual hope.

My hand flew to my mouth.

A sob escaped.

"Mom..."

I whispered.

The word cracked halfway through.

She could wake up.

She could come back.

She could smile again.

She could hug me again.

The thought alone shattered me.

I grabbed the photograph and pressed it against my chest.

My entire body shaking.

For the first time in years, hope flooded through me so strongly it hurt.

It physically hurt.

Because I'd forgotten what hope felt like.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to imagine a future where my mother wasn't trapped in a hospital bed.

Where she was home.

With me.

Alive.

Present.

Laughing.

I laughed through my tears.

A broken, emotional sound.

My chest felt ready to burst.

Then my eyes landed on the final section of the file.

Treatment Details.

Estimated Cost.

Without thinking, I turned the page.

Still smiling.

Still crying.

Still imagining my mother's eyes opening.

And then I saw the number.

Everything stopped.

$20,000,000

(20 Million US Dollars)

My smile vanished.

Instantly.

The tears remained frozen on my cheeks.

My eyes stared at the page.

Unmoving.

Twenty million dollars.

The number looked unreal.

Like a typo.

Like someone had accidentally added too many zeros.

I blinked.

Read it again.

Twenty million.

Again.

Twenty million.

Again.

Still twenty million.

The photograph slipped from my hands.

Falling onto the carpet.

I didn't even notice.

Because suddenly the room felt ice cold.

My chest tightened painfully.

The hope that had exploded inside me seconds ago began crumbling apart.

Piece by piece.

My mother could be saved.

She could wake up.

She could live.

After three years.

After everything.

There was finally a way.

And it cost twenty million dollars.

A broken laugh escaped my lips.

Then another.

And another.

The kind of laugh that sounds dangerously close to crying.

Because life had played the cruelest joke imaginable.

It had handed me a miracle.

Then placed it behind a door I couldn't afford to open.

My eyes filled with tears again.

This time they weren't tears of relief.

They were tears of helplessness.

Of frustration.

Of heartbreak.

I slowly lowered my head and stared at the photograph lying on the floor.

Mom looked exactly the same.

Peaceful.

Unaware.

As though she had no idea that how badly one of her daughters missed her. I'd been searching for this treatment for three years and now it was sitting in my laps.

And it carried a price tag bigger than anything I had ever imagined.

A sob escaped me.

Then another.

Soon I couldn't stop.

Alone in a luxury hotel suite overlooking one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I broke apart completely.

Because for the first time in three years, I knew my mother could come back.

And for the first time in three years, I realized that hope could hurt far more than despair.

My tears continued falling onto the papers scattered around me.

Twenty million dollars.

The number kept replaying inside my head.

Over and over.

Like a cruel song I couldn't escape.

I wrapped my arms around myself and stared blankly at the city lights outside the glass windows.

Everything felt hopeless.

For years, I'd prayed for a miracle.

Tonight, I'd finally found one.

And it came with a price I could never pay.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Of course.

Life always found a way to be cruel.

I lowered my head and began gathering the papers back into the file with trembling hands.

There was no point looking at them anymore.

The treatment existed.

The cure existed.

The hope existed.

But none of it belonged to me.

Not with twenty million dollars standing between me and my mother.

One by one, I shoved the papers back inside.

The reports.

The scans.

The photographs.

Everything.

Then something caught my attention.

A black greeting card.

It had been tucked into the very back of the file.

Hidden so carefully that I almost missed it.

My brows furrowed.

I slowly pulled it out.

The card was made of thick matte paper.

No logo.

No name.

No signature.

Just silver writing embossed across the center.

My heartbeat slowed.

Then quickened.

Because whoever had placed this card here wanted it to be found.

Wanted me to read it.

I flipped it over.

There was only one message.

A riddle.

The cure you seek lies beyond your reach.

The price is a mountain no hands can breach.

Yet mountains fall when shadows unite.

Some thieves walk hidden beneath the night.

Few seek freedom.

Few seek revenge.

Few seek power.

Few seek redemption.

And one seeks a heartbeat fading away.

Join the game.

Steal the impossible.

Claim the reward.

Or watch your miracle disappear.

For a moment, I simply stared.

The words burned themselves into my mind.

The room suddenly felt very quiet.

Very still.

As if the entire world was waiting for me to understand.

Then my eyes landed on the final line written at the bottom.

Every thief needs a reason.

Yours sleeps in a hospital bed.

My breath caught.

The card nearly slipped from my fingers.

"No way."

I whispered.

My mind immediately started connecting the dots.

The hidden file.

The treatment.

The impossible amount of money.

This mysterious greeting card.

They want me. They want me to help them. In their Robbery.

Someone wanted me to find this.

Someone had planned this.

Someone knew about my mother.

The realization sent chills down my spine.

I looked back at the riddle.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And suddenly the answer became painfully obvious.

The thieves.

The reward.

The impossible task.

The cure.

The money.

It wasn't really a riddle at all.

It was an invitation.

An invitation to a heist.

A dangerous one.

Probably illegal.

Probably insane.

Probably something that should have terrified me.

But all I could think about was one thing.

Mom.

My mom lying in that hospital bed.

My mother trapped inside her own body for three years.

My mother who finally had a chance to come back.

Twenty million dollars.

The same amount listed in the treatment report.

My pulse raced.

Whoever organized this knew.

They knew everything.

And they were offering me a choice.

A chance.

A way.

I looked at the city lights beyond the window.

A few minutes ago, I'd been drowning.

Hopeless.

Broken.

Now?

Now something entirely different filled my chest.

Determination.

Raw.

Dangerous.

Terrifying determination.

Because there was one thing everyone always underestimated about me.

The things I'd do for the people I loved.

My gaze dropped back to the card.

The silver letters seemed to shine beneath the hotel lights.

Join the game.

I laughed softly.

A humorless sound.

Because whoever had written this clearly expected hesitation.

Expected fear.

Expected questions.

But they didn't understand something.

The moment I'd read that report...

The moment I'd learned my mother could be saved...

I'd already made my decision.

The heist.

The danger.

The consequences.

None of it mattered.

Not compared to her.

I picked up the photograph from the carpet and stared at my mother's sleeping face.

Then I looked at the card.

And for the first time that night, my tears stopped.

A strange calm settled over me.

The kind of calm that comes right before someone does something reckless.

Something life-changing.

Something irreversible.

I brushed my thumb over Mom's picture.

A small smile appearing through the heartbreak.

"Looks like we're robbing something, Mom."

My voice echoed through the silent suite.

Outside, Italy glittered beneath the night sky.

Inside, my fate had just changed forever.

Author's Note

So grateful that you all decided to read my book. I am a student and have lots of work to do except writing so if I don't update for some time please don't assume that I am quitting. It would be kinda hectic for me to write a book as well as study hard for my academics so please compromise. I promise I will not disappoint you at all.

~BloodVyN