The leather seats of the black Mercedes smelled of old tobacco and chemical cleaner.

The tarmac at Fiumicino airport shivered under the midday heat.

My father did not look at me once during the drive.

He had told me this was a family vacation, a chance to rebuild what we lost after my mother died.

But his collar was damp with sweat, and his fingers kept twitching against his leather briefcase.

“Is everything okay, Dad?” I asked.

He nodded quickly, staring out the window at the dry, yellow fields.

“Just tired, Emily,” he said. “The flight was long.”

We drove past the ancient stone walls of Rome and climbed into the dusty hills.

The car stopped outside a high stucco wall.

It was topped with security cameras and coils of rusted razor wire.

The iron gates groaned open, then clicked shut behind us with a heavy, metallic sound.

“Where are we?” I asked, looking at the armed guard by the gate house.

“An old friend’s place,” my father said, his voice thin.

“Just a quick business meeting before we check into the hotel.”

A man in a sharp grey suit opened my door.

The air smelled of dry pine, hot gravel, and exhaust.

We were led through a courtyard with a dry marble fountain.

The house was massive, built of pale stone that reflected the blinding sun.

Inside, the floors were cold, polished terrazzo.

High windows let in the light, but the villa still felt dark and empty.

An older man sat in a high-backed leather chair by a cold fireplace.

His hair was silver, combed back neatly from his forehead.

His linen suit looked expensive, and his face was lined with deep, hard creases.

This was Don Alessandro Vitale.

He did not stand up when we entered.

His dark eyes tracked me from the doorway, cold and assessing.

“Robert,” Alessandro said.

His voice was low, like dry gravel sliding down a chute.

“You are on time.”

“I brought her, Alessandro,” my father said.

He pushed me forward slightly by the elbow.

My skin went cold under the silk of my blouse.

“Brought me for what?” I asked.