The Last Witness

Rome was watching. Jessica could feel it in the weight of the night, in the hush of the streets that should have been louder, in the way shadows stretched just a little too far beneath the amber glow of the streetlights.

They weren’t being followed. Not yet. But she knew better than to believe they were alone. She adjusted her grip on the strap of her bag, the weight of the stolen film reels still heavy against her side.

Olivia walked beside her, her posture tight. She was scanning the streets the way a journalist did—not just looking, but observing.

“Tell me you have something,” Jessica murmured.

Olivia didn’t answer right away. She was focused on her phone, sifting through old records, digital breadcrumbs buried in archives that weren’t meant to be found.

Then, finally, “I have something.”

Jessica exhaled. “Where is he?”

Olivia tapped the screen, then turned it toward Jessica. A name. An address. Orlando Sacchetti. And a location that was on the outskirts of Rome.

Jessica’s jaw tightened. “That’s too far to walk.”

Olivia sighed. “Then let’s steal a ride.”

Jessica smirked faintly. “Now you’re thinking like me.”

They moved. Fast. Because they weren’t just racing to find Sacchetti. They were racing whoever else was looking for him.

* * *

The stolen car was old but reliable. Jessica kept the speed just below reckless, weaving through the near-empty streets.

The address Olivia had found was outside the city, nestled in the quiet decay of a forgotten industrial district.

Jessica glanced in the rearview mirror. No one was behind them. That didn’t mean no one was coming. She tightened her grip on the wheel.,

“You think he’ll even talk to us?” Olivia asked.

Jessica exhaled. “If he’s smart, he’ll know we’re his best option.”

“And if he’s scared?”

Jessica smirked. “Then we scare him more than the alternative.”

The streetlights grew fewer, and the road rougher. The address was a run-down apartment building, old stucco peeling away from the walls. No lights inside. No signs of life.

They pulled the car to a stop, and climbed out. The night air was thick with exhaust, rain, and something heavier. Jessica moved first, her pace controlled but quick. Olivia followed.

Jessica paused outside the door. She had imagined this moment a dozen ways. But now that she was here, the weight of it pressed harder. If he talked, everything would change.

She knocked with three sharp taps. Silence. She knocked again. Nothing.

Jessica exhaled sharply. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”

She stepped back and kicked. The door cracked open. Jessica stepped in first, gun drawn. The apartment inside was dark. Still. Stacks of books leaned against the wall, some still wrapped in brittle plastic. A half-empty bottle of grappa was on the table. An old CRT type TV was on a cart Olivia followed, closing the door behind them.

“Sacchetti?” Jessica called, voice even.

At first, there was nothing. Then, from deeper inside came a faint shuffling sound. Jessica moved toward it. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open, and there he was.

* * *

Orlando Sacchetti sat in an old chair, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his expression tired but sharp. He didn’t look surprised.

Jessica lowered her gun. “You knew we were coming,” she said.

Sacchetti exhaled smoke. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Jessica smirked faintly. “Neither were the people chasing us.”

Sacchetti’s jaw ticked.

Jessica stepped closer. “You were there that night, weren’t you?”

He studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I saw everything.”

Jessica’s breath slowed. “The murder,” she said. “The real one.”

Sacchetti nodded.

Jessica exhaled. “Then tell us what you saw.”

Sacchetti’s gaze darkened.

“I tell you,” he murmured, “and you’re dead.”

Jessica tilted her head. “We stopped being safe a long time ago.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Sacchetti stubbed out his cigarette. And began to talk.