He did not say a word.

He simply pointed down a narrow stone staircase that led into the crypt.

I took a deep breath and descended the steps, my hand sliding along the damp, rough-hewn wall.

The air grew thicker, smelling of damp earth and centuries of dust.

At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy iron door stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

The room was lit by yellow candles placed in recessed niches along the brick walls.

A long wooden table sat in the center of the vaulted chamber.

Four men sat around it, their faces half-hidden in the flickering shadows.

Gianni Moretti sat at the head of the table, his liver-spotted hands resting on his silver-handled cane.

To his left sat two older men I did not recognize, their expressions grim and unreadable.

To his right sat Enzo Vitale.

Enzo’s face went pale when he saw me walk into the room.

“What is this?” Enzo demanded, half-rising from his chair. “Why is this American girl here?”

“Sit down, Enzo,” Moretti said, his voice quiet but commanding.