“He owed your family money,” I said, my fingers gripping the damp edge of the paper. “Why would you pay him?”

“We didn’t pay him,” Matteo replied, his voice flat and hard.

“The money came from an offshore account controlled by the arsonist’s proxy.”

“Your father did not just leave you to pay his debts.”

“He sold the security codes to the villa.”

“He knew the fire was coming, and he knew exactly what time it would start.”

The paper felt heavy and cold in my hands.

The sharp smell of wet ink and burned paper filled the small, enclosed space of the car.

“He left me there,” I said, the realization settling like lead in my chest.

“He knew I was asleep in the guest wing.”

Matteo turned the key and pulled it from the ignition, plunging the car into a heavy, suffocating silence.

“Come inside,” he said. “We cannot stay out in the open.”

He opened his door, the hinge letting out a sharp, metallic creak.

I followed him, clutching the wet leather folder tightly against my chest.