He had known his own nephew Enzo was skimming from the construction contracts in Naples.

He had kept the evidence as insurance, but death had taken him before he could use it.

Now, that insurance belonged to me.

If I played this right, I would not have to spend the rest of my life running from the syndicate.

I could buy my freedom, and Matteo’s life, with the very gold that had bound us to this city.

The taxi slowed down as we entered a quiet, narrow street flanked by high stone walls.

The Basilica of San Giovanni Decollato stood dark and imposing in the rain.

I paid the driver with a crumpled fifty-euro note and stepped out.

The air smelled of wet stone and old wood.

A small side door of the church was propped open with a heavy wooden wedge.

A single light bulb flickered in the brick archway above it.

I clutched the ledger tight against my ribs and walked inside.

The warmth of the interior did not reach the cold stone floor.

A man in a dark overcoat stood in the shadows of the vestibule.