Enzo laughed out loud, a harsh, dry sound that echoed off the stone vaulting.

“You are a captive,” Enzo said, leaning over the table. “Your father sold you to us to pay his debts. You own nothing.”

“Your uncle’s ledger says otherwise,” I said softly.

I opened the leather binder and laid it flat on the table, turning it toward Moretti.

The old man squinted, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his pocket.

Enzo’s laughter died instantly.

He stared at the handwritten pages, his jaw tightening as he recognized his uncle’s script.

“I also have the corporate registration for the Maltese shell companies,” I said, looking directly at Enzo.

“And the transaction logs that match the missing sixty million euros from the Swiss accounts.”

The silence in the room became absolute, broken only by the sound of the rain dripping somewhere in the deep corners of the crypt.

Moretti slowly turned a page, his fingers trembling slightly as his eyes scanned the columns of numbers.

He looked up from the book, his gaze shifting from me to Enzo.