He looked out the tall window at the grey Roman sky.

“But they are close. They are in this house, or they are watching it.”

“And you think they will let me live once they find out?” I asked.

“They cannot touch you without starting a war with the American banks that manage the trust,” Alessandro said.

“Your citizenship is your shield. My money is yours to keep once the transition is complete.”

“And my father’s debt?”

“Forgiven,” Alessandro said. “The papers are already signed.”

He stood up, using the desk for support.

“Let us go to the chapel. The priest does not like to be kept waiting.”

The hallway was cold, the stone floor freezing beneath my thin shoes.

We walked down the long corridor lined with oil paintings of dead Vitale ancestors.

At the end of the hall, a spiral staircase led down to the private chapel.

The air down there smelled of beeswax and damp earth.

Matteo was already waiting by the altar, his hands clasped in front of him.

An elderly priest in a stained white surplice stood next to him, holding a small black book.