“Are you going to let a woman and a disgraced nephew take everything we built?” Enzo asked.

None of them answered.

One of the older men simply turned his face away, looking at the wet stone floor.

“The sixty million euros you took from the Swiss accounts,” I said, looking directly at Enzo.

“They were meant for the families of the men who died in Naples,” I continued.

“You kept them for your own offshore investments.”

Moretti’s eyes narrowed into slits as he stared at Enzo.

“Is this true, Enzo?” Moretti asked.

Enzo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

His hand crept slowly toward his jacket pocket.

Matteo moved instantly, grabbing Enzo’s wrist and slamming it down onto the hard oak table.

A small silver revolver clattered out of Enzo’s grip and rolled across the wood.

One of Moretti’s guards stepped forward, his hand on his weapon, pointing it directly at Enzo’s chest.

“Take him out,” Moretti said quietly.

“What about the girl?” Enzo shouted as the guards grabbed his arms, dragging him backward.

“What about her father’s debt?” Enzo’s voice echoed off the damp walls.