I turned to the analyst. “Send the ledger files regarding the Naples drug shipment to the Carabinieri headquarters. Anonymous tip.”

The analyst looked at Matteo, waiting for confirmation.

Matteo slowly let go of his holster and nodded. “Do it.”

Within twenty minutes, we watched the live security feed as three blue-and-white police cruisers blocked the entrance to the warehouse.

Armed officers moved in quickly, their flashlights cutting through the dark.

Silvio and his men were led out in handcuffs, their faces pale under the streetlights.

“That is Enzo’s network gone,” Matteo said, a look of relief washing over his face.

“Now we clean the rest,” I said.

The next morning, we met with Signor Bianchi, the syndicate’s chief financial attorney, in a quiet cafe near the Piazza Navona.

The cafe was small, smelling of roasted espresso beans and fresh pastries.

Bianchi was an older man with grey hair and a perfectly tailored grey suit.

He adjusted his spectacles as he looked over the transfer documents I had prepared.

“Signorina Carter,” Bianchi said, his voice hushed. “These funds represent forty years of the Vitale family’s work.”