“It is done,” Bianchi said, rising from his chair. “Within forty-eight hours, the accounts will be empty.”

“Thank you, Signor Bianchi,” I said.

He bowed his head slightly and walked out into the busy square, disappearing into the crowd of tourists.

Matteo and I walked back toward the Tiber river, the autumn wind blowing dry leaves across the cobblestones.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out and saw a message from an unknown number.

It was a photograph of a dusty street in Buenos Aires, taken from a distance.

Below the image was a text: *Your father is safe. He has been given a small pension under an assumed name. He will not trouble you again.*

I knew the origin of the sender, even through a text. It was one of Matteo’s contacts.

I deleted the message and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

“He will have a quiet life,” Matteo said, looking out over the water. “A simple one.”

“That is more than he deserves,” I said. “But it is enough.”