“You were framed, Emily,” Matteo whispered, pushing me through the gap in the stone. “The fire in the archives, the missing ledger—it wasn’t your father’s old associates. It was a faction inside our own family.”

The damp air of the Roman night hit my face as we emerged into an overgrown garden.

A searchlight swept across the gravel driveway fifty yards away.

“They wanted my uncle to believe you did it, so he would execute you and start a war with the Americans,” Matteo said.

A voice shouted from the terrace above us.

“They’re by the old crypt! Move!”

Gunfire chipped the stone wall behind us, showering us with sharp fragments.

Matteo pulled a Beretta from his waistband and fired three shots into the darkness.

“Run!” he yelled, grabbing my hand.

We sprinted through the wet grass toward the perimeter wall.

My lungs burned, and the cold mud soaked through my shoes.

Matteo shoved open a rusty iron gate that led to a narrow dirt road.

A dark sedan was parked under the shadow of a large pine tree.