The rain roared against the windshield, blurring the headlights of the oncoming Roman traffic into streaks of gold and red.

“Alessandro is dead,” Moretti said after a long, heavy pause.

“I know,” I said. “And his nephew Matteo is currently being hunted by your own people.”

“That is family business, signorina.”

“It becomes council business when sixty million euros are about to be frozen by the Swiss authorities,” I said.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my tone flat and cold.

“I want a meeting with the governing council,” I said. “Tonight.”

“The council does not meet with foreign girls who were brought here as collateral,” Moretti spat.

“Then you can explain to your associates why their offshore accounts are empty by sunrise,” I said.

I held my breath, waiting.

The driver, Luca, glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Ten minutes,” Moretti finally said. “The crypt beneath the Basilica of San Giovanni Decollato.”

“I will be there,” I said.

“Come alone,” he said. “If we see Luca or any of Matteo’s loyalists, the deal is off.”