“What is Vesper?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

He did not look at me.

“A ghost,” he said, his eyes fixed on the dark buildings sliding past.

“A shell company used to move assets before the war.”

“Marcus knew you would react to it,” I said, trying to read his profile in the dark.

“Marcus is drowning,” Damiano replied, his voice flat and empty of emotion.

“He is clutching at anything that might float, even old secrets.”

We arrived at a different estate, this one hidden behind tall iron gates covered in dead ivy.

It was located on the northern edge of the city, overlooking the black expanse of the river.

The air inside the house smelled of beeswax, old paper, and lemon polish.

It was a cold, grand place that felt more like a museum than a home.

Damiano immediately went to his desk in the study and began making silent phone calls.

He spoke in low, rapid Italian, his voice sharp and demanding.

I sat on the edge of a leather sofa, shivering despite the warmth of the marble hearth.