“We’ll be safe here for a few hours,” he said, turning off the ignition.

He handed me a small wind-up flashlight from the glove compartment.

“Open the folder, Emily,” he said quietly.

My fingers shook as I unzipped the wet leather and pulled out the damp, printed bank statements.

The beam of the flashlight flickered, then stabilized on the columns of numbers.

A transfer of half a million euros was highlighted in yellow.

I leaned closer to read the name of the beneficiary account.

My eyes strained against the dim, yellow beam of the flashlight.

The name printed beside the transaction number was written in clear, bold letters.

*Carter Holdings LLC.*

Below it was the authorization signature, scanned and digitized in high resolution.

It was my father’s handwriting, the elegant, sweeping ‘R’ he used on every official document.

“No,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “This has to be a mistake.”

Matteo did not look at me.

He kept his hands on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield into the blackness of the olive groves.

“It is not a mistake, Emily,” he said.