The city felt unnervingly quiet as I sat at my desk, staring at the photograph pinned to the corkboard. The office was empty—too early for anyone else to arrive—but I had stopped noticing the time.
I'd replayed the phone call from that morning more times than I cared to admit:
"Keep digging, and you'll regret it."
His voice was calm, almost casual, like he wasn't delivering a threat but a certainty. The man on the other end of the line didn't need to yell or make dramatic statements. He'd spoken with the confidence of someone who knew how things would end.
That unsettled me most of all.
The Calvinis weren't just a mafia family—they were a force. They operated in shadows, pulling strings with a reach that extended beyond the courts and into every corner of the city.
But despite the growing danger, I couldn't stop.
The truth wasn't just dangling in front of me; it was unraveling. Montini's financial records, Ferraro's email, Lorenzo's half-answers—they were all threads leading to a larger tapestry. And at the center of it was Marco Greco's murder, a crime that didn't make sense unless you understood who benefited most.
The Calvinis weren't just framing Lorenzo. They were dismantling him.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. If I was going to protect my client—and myself—I needed more than the fragments I'd uncovered. I needed leverage.
That's what had brought me here.
Through whispered conversations and a few quiet calls, I'd tracked down the name of someone who might help me fill in the gaps: Giorgio Russo.
He was a Calvini associate, known for keeping his mouth shut and his loyalty to the family intact. But everyone had their price. If I could find his, I might finally get the answers I needed.
The bar where Giorgio worked was tucked into one of Milan's grittier districts, the kind of place where no one asked questions. The neon sign above the door flickered faintly, its red glow casting jagged shadows against the cracked pavement.
I hesitated at the entrance, my hand resting on the handle. The faint smell of smoke and damp concrete drifted through the air, mingling with the distant hum of the city.
My mind raced with every possible outcome of this meeting. Giorgio could help me—or he could report back to the Calvinis that I was poking around where I didn't belong.
But if I wanted answers, this was the only way.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The bar was dimly lit, its interior shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke that hung heavy in the air. The patrons—mostly men in their thirties and forties—sat hunched over their drinks, their voices low and cautious.
I scanned the room quickly, my gaze landing on Giorgio almost immediately.
He sat at the far end of the bar, a hulking figure with broad shoulders and tattooed arms. His head was shaved close, and his jawline was sharp enough to look like a weapon. He swirled a glass of whiskey in his hand, his movements slow and deliberate.
He noticed me before I reached him, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as I approached.
"Giorgio Russo?" I asked, my voice steady.
He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused but wary. "Who's asking?"
"Elena Moretti," I replied. "I'm a lawyer."
He smirked, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "A lawyer? What brings someone like you to a place like this? Lose your way to the courthouse?"
"I'm here because I need information," I said, ignoring his tone.
His smirk widened. "Information, huh? And you thought I'd just hand it over?"
"I thought you might be willing to talk," I said. "If the price is right."
Giorgio leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking over me with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But asking questions about the Calvinis isn't the smartest move."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph, sliding it across the bar toward him.
"This is Lorenzo Santini," I said. "And the Calvinis are framing him for Marco Greco's murder. I need to know how far their involvement goes."
Giorgio's smirk faded as he looked at the photograph. He didn't touch it, but his expression darkened slightly.
"You don't know what you're getting into," he said after a moment.
"Then explain it to me," I said, leaning closer.
Giorgio hesitated, his hand gripping the edge of the bar. He glanced around the room before lowering his voice. "The Calvinis don't just frame people—they erase them. If they're targeting Santini, it's because he's in their way."
"In their way how?"
"Power," Giorgio said simply. "Santini's growing too strong. The Calvinis don't want competition, so they're making an example out of him. Greco's murder is just the start."
"But why frame him?" I pressed. "Why not just kill him outright?"
Giorgio tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Killing a man like Santini doesn't just get rid of him—it creates chaos. A power vacuum. And chaos isn't good for business. Framing him? That's cleaner. It makes him look reckless, weak. It isolates him from his allies."
"And you're okay with that?" I asked, my voice laced with frustration.
"It's not my war, bella," Giorgio said, his tone cool. "I just do what I'm told."
"But you're talking to me now," I said. "Why?"
For a moment, Giorgio didn't answer. He swirled his glass of whiskey, staring at the liquid as though it might hold the answers. Finally, he looked up, his expression unreadable.
"Maybe I'm curious," he said. "Or maybe I just want to see how far you're willing to go before this whole thing blows up in your face."
The cold night air hit me like a wall as I stepped out of the bar. My chest was tight, my heart pounding from the weight of what Giorgio had told me.
The Calvinis weren't just framing Lorenzo—they were dismantling him piece by piece, turning his allies against him and consolidating their power.
But Giorgio's warning lingered in my mind:
"You're digging into things you don't understand. And when you find what you're looking for, you'd better be ready for what comes next."
As I walked toward my car, the shadows seemed to shift around me, and the faint sound of footsteps made my pulse quicken. I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty.
Still, the feeling of being watched stayed with me long after I locked the doors and pulled away from the curb.
This wasn't just a case anymore.
It was a battle.
And I was no longer sure which side I was fighting for.