“This is a fabrication,” Enzo continued, pointing a trembling finger at the ledger. “She is a hostage. Her father is a debtor who fled the country.”

“The ledger is real, Enzo,” Moretti interrupted, tapping his thick fingernail against the yellowed paper.

“I know Alessandro’s signature,” the old man added. “I know his code.”

I picked up my phone, sliding my thumb across the glass to silence the vibration.

The screen displayed a confirmation email from a private notary office in Zurich.

“Your uncle didn’t just keep records of your theft, Enzo,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest.

“He knew you would try to take the syndicate the moment his heart stopped.”

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers, placing them on top of the ledger.

The paper was thick, cream-colored, and stamped with the official seal of the Italian civil courts.

“These are the deeds to the Rome estate, the villa in Tuscany, and the holding companies in Valletta,” I said.

Moretti took the papers, his glasses sliding down his nose as he read the first page.