It was the reason my father had turned to the Vitale syndicate for a loan in the first place.

I stared at the black-and-white photos of the charred kitchen.

My Italian was basic, but I could read the official fire marshal’s report.

It ruled the fire an accident, caused by a faulty gas line in the basement.

But clipped behind the official report was a yellowed piece of scrap paper.

It was a handwritten note in English, written in a sharp, hurried script.

“The gas line was cut from the outside,” the note read.

I frowned, my fingers tightening on the edge of the paper.

“S. syndicate signature,” the note continued. “The American branch did the work.”

The S. syndicate was the Sforza family, the Vitale group’s main rivals in the city.

My breath caught in my throat as the words registered.

The fire had not been an accident at all.

My father had been targeted before he ever took a single euro from Don Alessandro.

They had ruined him on purpose to force him into this trap.

A soft knock sounded at the door.