The family council had declared him a deserter, but without proof of treason, my father’s sudden death had been officially classified by our internal tribunal as a tragic mechanical accident.
“Matteo,” I breathed, staring at the name on the banking document.
“Si Vivien está tomando órdenes, o tomando dinero, de Matteo Bellini, entonces su entrada en mi vida no fue una reunión casual en esa gala de caridad en Florencia”.
“Fue una infiltración dirigida”, confirmó sombríamente Rocco.
“Ella fue plantada”.
Él llegó a la carpeta por última vez y sacó una vieja fotografía brillante en blanco y negro.
“My contacts in Naples found this in an archived file from a defunct private security firm.
It was taken six months ago outside a private medical clinic in the hills above Amalfi.”
I took the photograph.
The image was sharp despite the grainy lighting.
It showed Vivien, dressed in a black trench coat, standing on the steps of a gated stone villa.
