“Then we lock them out,” I said.

We walked out of the council room and down the long, marble-lined hallway of the palazzo.

The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of rain and old stone from the Roman streets.

Matteo led me to a private office on the second floor, where three laptops sat open on a dark mahogany desk.

A young man with glasses, one of Matteo’s trusted security analysts, looked up as we entered.

“Did Moretti agree?” the analyst asked.

“He did,” Matteo said. “Start the transfers to the holding accounts.”

“Which ones?” the analyst asked, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I pulled a chair up to the desk and opened the leather binder.

“Not the private accounts,” I said. “We start with the shipping registries in Civitavecchia and Naples.”

“Those are Enzo’s primary smuggling routes,” Matteo explained, leaning over my shoulder.

“If we sell the vessels and the docks to legitimate commercial liners, the routes disappear,” I said.

The analyst began typing rapidly, the blue light of the screen reflecting off his lenses.

“It will take three days to clear the compliance checks,” the analyst said.