Rain lashed against Trattoria Stella's leaded windows. Inspector Russo—grizzled veteran of Eldenborough PD—crushed garlic cloves with battle-scarred knuckles, his gaze tracking Adrian Stone's retreat through the downpour.
"He got the Penthouse Suite version of trauma," Russo grunted, nodding toward the vanishing figure. "Bianca's parole comes up in April."
Detective Vega stirred her Negroni, ice clinking like shackles. "Six years, three months. Rehabilitation certificates stack taller than her rap sheet."
Dr. Aris Thorne—visiting fellow from Quantico's Behavioral Forensics division—leaned forward. Rainwater dripped from his Burberry trench coat onto the terrazzo floor. "Bianca?"
"The matriarch of misery," Vega spat. "Convicted of aggravated assault against her own blood. Knife wounds nearly severed Adrian's brachial artery."
Aris's forensic mind ignited. Dissonance: Subject's poise contradicts victim profile.
Vega: (Slamming glass) "Silas Stone abandoned them when Adrian was eight! Rockstar wannabe vanished after a London gig!"
Russo: (Shredding bread) "Bianca went nuclear. Vodka for breakfast, poker debts for dinner."
Aris: "And the assault?"
Vega: "Mistook Adrian for Silas during a blackout. Stabbed him three times before neighbors kicked the door down."
Aris's Montblanc pen hovered over his Moleskine. Premeditation indicators?
Russo's narrative unfolded like a police report: Thirteen-year-old Adrian's recovery coincided with Northgate urban renewal. The Preservation Society—led by Countess Dubois—petitioned for his emancipation. Forensic evidence from Adrian's covert surveillance system sealed Bianca's conviction.
"He documented everything," Vega murmured. "Security feeds showed Bianca's rages escalating for months."
Aris's gaze sharpened. Surveillance at thirteen? Calculating or terrified?
"The settlement made him a millionaire," Russo added. Waterfront loft. Trust fund locked until twenty-one. All managed through Thornwood's fiduciary oversight.
Vega beamed. "Our phoenix rose from ashes!"
Aris watched rain distort Adrian's silhouette across the piazza. Phoenixes don't install hidden cameras.
Aris: "No Silas sightings?"
Russo: (Slurping arrabbiata) "Dead in a ditch or shacked up in Majorca."
Vega: "Good riddance! That genetic trash—"
Aris: "Adrian's stability metrics... extraordinary given the ACE score."
Vega misinterpreted his clinical tone. "The boy's saintly! Volunteers at St. Ignatius shelter! Tutors dyslexic freshmen!"
Aris's phone vibrated—encrypted alert from Quantico's database:
>> Bianca Stone: Prison psychiatric eval redacted. Guards report nocturnal screaming about 'the witness'. <<**
**>> Silas Stone: Interpol flagged 2012 passport scan in Marseille. <<
He sipped espresso, bitterness spreading across his tongue. Saints don't inherit blood money.
Across the piazza, Adrian paused beneath Medici-era arches. His reflection fractured in the rain-slicked cobblestones: Scholar. Savior. Prison architect.
Thornwood's office this morning:
"Parole board needs character witnesses," the headmaster said. "Your testimony could free her."
Adrian's response: "My testimony put her there."
Now Aris Thorne observed him—a specimen under glass. The doctor's clinical detachment mirrored Adrian's own. Two predators recognizing kinship.
Aris's burner phone illuminated:
>> Request: Bianca Stone's surveillance footage (Sealed Evidence Vault 7). Priority Alpha. <<
He paid the bill with cash. Saints leave footprints. Professionals erase them.
Russo: (Watching Aris leave) "Creepy little profiler."
Vega: "Respect! He caught the Chelsea Cathedral Cannibal!"
Russo: "Still creepy. Bet he's never had a decent shag."
Vega: "Unlike you? Last date was with a handcuff inventory list!"
Their laughter drowned in the storm as Aris tailed Adrian toward the riverfront.
Aris: (Into comms) "Subject approaching Northgate loft. Initiate thermal surveillance."
Quantico Ops: "Confirming: Subject Stone, Adrian. Threat Level: Potential Harbinger."
Harbinger of what? Aris wondered. Salvation or scorched earth?