The night air in the Lazio hills was cold, smelling of wet earth and wild pine.

We walked up the crumbling stone steps of the farmhouse.

Matteo pushed the heavy oak door open with his shoulder.

Inside, the air was stale and thick with dust.

I shone the flickering flashlight around the room.

An old wooden table sat in the center, surrounded by three mismatched chairs.

A massive stone fireplace stood empty in the corner, choked with gray ash and dead leaves.

Matteo closed the door behind us and slid a heavy iron bolt into place.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair.

I sat, my knees trembling so hard they knocked against the rough table leg.

I spread the damp papers out on the dust-covered wood.

The flashlight beam flickered once, then died completely.

I tapped the plastic casing against my palm until the weak, yellow light returned.

“There is more,” Matteo said, leaning over my shoulder.

His hand, warm and rough, brushed against mine as he pointed to the second page of the transfer record.

“Look at the timestamp on the authorization.”