He smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of his gun, reached inside, and unlocked the door.

“Get in,” he ordered, checking his ammunition clip.

I scrambled into the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Matteo hot-wired the engine under the dashboard, and the motor roared to life.

He threw a heavy, water-damaged leather folder into my lap before shifting the car into gear.

“What is this?” I asked, holding the cold leather.

“I grabbed it from the vault before the explosion,” Matteo said, tearing down the dirt road without headlights. “It contains the bank transfers from the night of the fire.”

He glanced at me, his eyes dark and grave in the faint dashboard light.

“There is a name on those offshore accounts that shouldn’t be there,” he said.

We drove in silence for miles, leaving the lights of Rome behind as we climbed into the dark, winding roads of the Lazio hills.

Finally, Matteo pulled the car into a gravel driveway hidden behind a thick row of cypress trees.

A small, derelict stone farmhouse sat in the darkness.