The drive back to Milan was agonizingly slow. The narrow country roads seemed to stretch forever, flanked by endless rows of trees that cast long, twisting shadows across the asphalt. My fingers gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white.
The man from the villa hadn't just rattled me—he had unsettled something deeper. His presence felt calculated, as if he'd been waiting for me. And his warning still echoed in my mind:
"Walk away. Leave this case behind. It's not worth what it will cost you."
But what exactly would it cost? My reputation? My safety? Or something worse?
By the time I reached the city limits, the first hint of dawn was beginning to lighten the sky. My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to rest. I had too many questions and no answers.
I arrived home just as the city was waking up. The smell of baking bread from the café downstairs drifted through the air, mingling with the faint hum of morning traffic. Normally, it was a comforting scene, but today it felt distant, like I was watching it through a fog.
I dropped my keys on the counter and dumped my bag onto the dining table, scattering the contents: Montini's financial records, Ferraro's travel history, and the photograph from the villa.
The photograph drew my attention first.
I picked it up, studying it again in the pale light filtering through the window. Lorenzo's teenage face stared back at me, his features caught in that in-between stage of boy and man. His expression was serious, almost solemn, his posture stiff beside his father's commanding figure.
And then there was the woman.
She stood with a protective hand on Lorenzo's shoulder, her soft eyes a stark contrast to the hard edges of Antonio Santini. Her smile was gentle, but there was something about her that felt almost… tragic.
She looked like someone who didn't belong in this world.
I turned the photo over, running my fingers over the faded ink in the corner.
September 12, 2002.
A date frozen in time, just weeks before the violence that had changed everything.
I set the photo down carefully and reached for my laptop. My investigation wasn't over.
By mid-morning, I was at the office, buried in files. The hum of fluorescent lights and the faint buzz of distant conversations created a low backdrop of sound, but I tuned it all out.
Montini's financial records were damning, each suspicious deposit drawing a red thread between him and the Calvini family. Grimaldi Imports, their known front company, had funneled money to Montini in a way that was obvious once you knew what to look for.
But Ferraro's records were still bothering me.
Her financials were clean—too clean, almost like someone had scrubbed them. But her travel history provided a crucial lead: a trip to Naples two weeks before Marco Greco's murder.
I dug deeper, combing through discovery files the prosecution had disclosed. Ferraro's inbox had been included in the records, though most of the emails were mundane—flight confirmations, hotel reservations.
But one stood out.
Sender: Untraceable address
Subject: Payment confirmed. Instructions to follow.
The email was short, vague, and sent just days after her return from Naples.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the words on the screen. My instincts told me this wasn't a coincidence.
By early afternoon, I was back at the detention center, the photograph and Ferraro's email tucked neatly into the folder in my bag.
The guards didn't even bother checking my ID this time—they knew me by now. One of them nodded as I passed, and I forced a polite smile that didn't reach my eyes.
Lorenzo was already seated when I entered the visitation room. He wore the same calm confidence as always, but today, his posture seemed stiffer, his hands resting on the table in a way that looked almost calculated.
"You're becoming a regular here," he said as I sat down.
"Don't flatter yourself," I replied, pulling the photograph from my bag and sliding it across the glass.
The smirk disappeared from his face the moment he saw it.
Lorenzo leaned forward, his hand pressing against the glass as he studied the image. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked… vulnerable.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.
"I went to the villa," I said. "I found it there."
His eyes snapped up to meet mine, and for the first time, I saw something raw in his expression. Fear, anger, and something else I couldn't place.
"You shouldn't have gone there," he said, his tone sharp.
"Why not?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Because it's dangerous," he said, his voice low. "That place… it's a tomb. It holds memories that should have stayed buried."
"Memories don't kill people," I shot back. "But the man who confronted me there might. Who was he, Lorenzo? Was he one of yours?"
His jaw tightened further, the muscles in his neck flexing as he fought to maintain his composure. "No," he said finally. "He wasn't one of mine."
"Then who?"
Lorenzo hesitated, his gaze flicking back to the photograph. "The Calvinis don't just want me out of the way—they want anyone connected to me silenced. If they know you've been poking around the villa, they'll see it as a threat."
"They already do," I said, my voice hard. "Montini's financial records tie him directly to Grimaldi Imports, and Ferraro received an email confirming payment after her trip to Naples. Your rivals are paying off witnesses to frame you, Lorenzo. This isn't just a trial—it's an execution."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. For a long moment, he didn't say anything.
"What aren't you telling me?" I pressed. "What happened the night Marco Greco was killed?"
Lorenzo's gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Marco worked for the Calvinis. He was skimming money from one of my businesses, funneling it back to them. When I found out, I confronted him. That's the argument Montini claims he saw."
"And then what?"
"I left," he said simply. "But someone else didn't."
"What does that mean?"
"It means Greco was expendable," Lorenzo said, his tone hardening. "The Calvinis killed him and made sure I'd take the fall. They wanted a war, and framing me was the easiest way to start one."
That evening, back in my apartment, I stared at the files spread across the table, replaying Lorenzo's words in my mind.
If the Calvinis were behind everything, this case wasn't just about clearing Lorenzo's name—it was about exposing an elaborate conspiracy.
But something didn't sit right.
Lorenzo was too careful, too calculating. Why had he waited so long to tell me the truth? Why had he let me stumble through the dark instead of giving me the full story from the start?
I glanced at the photograph again, my eyes lingering on the woman's gentle smile.
Lorenzo wasn't just hiding something about the case. He was hiding something about himself.
And if I wanted to win, I needed to figure out what it was.