Page 56

I bought this particular carabiniere a long time ago.

Back at the estate by dawn, I shower, and it doesn’t get the smoke out of my lungs. My clean suit will smell of it by noon, but I don’t much care. I convene the war in my study while the house still sleeps.

“Retaliation options first.”

Nick remains composed, presenting the options in a professional yet dissatisfied tone. Their Brescia distribution center, quiet on Thursdays. Their Genoa broker, responsible for routing the counterfeit goods, is accessible and deflects blame. Matteo’s own channels, three of which I could destroy by the weekend, a payback for Giulio.

“Or,” Nick says, placing a different folder on top, “you take the off-ramp. Allegra’s deal is still available—she contacted the lawyer again yesterday, before Bergamo. Freight moves away from your routes, the Finanza loses track, and there will be no more fires or funerals.”

“The price hasn’t changed, I assume.”

“All it takes is the doctor and your pride, and you’ve spent more on less.” He meets my eyes. “It’s the move that saves lives, Lupo. I’d be failing you if I didn’t put it on the table.”

I look at the off-ramp folder for a while. It’s the rational choice—ending the conflict so no more mothers in Monza have to bury their sons. A colder, earlier version of myself would have signed off on it before the coffee even cooled.

“No.”

“Lupo—”

“Say I take it.” I stand and go to the window. “I marry Allegra, I fold the Brancati back into my routes, and I keep moving their freight, because that’s the deal. Their freight, my lanes, everyone stays rich and alive.”

Nick waits.

“Their freight is counterfeit chemotherapy. Fake drugs, fake methotrexate. Some of the same drugs that Sarah takes.”

His gulp is audible.

“Somewhere there’s a father,” I say, quieter, “watching his kid on medicine that’s sugar, thanking God for the treatment. And the treatment came off my truck. And the kid doesn’t get better. They get worse. And worse. Until they stop needing the fake pills.”

I face him. “I take Allegra’s hand, and that’s the business I run for the rest of my life. Some other man’s Sarah gets to die so my men live. Is that a trade you can live with?”

Nick glances away.

“I can’t live with it. Fuck that. Fuck the off-ramp. I don’t trade children’s lives for my men’s lives. I’m not playing Allegra’s game. I’m not taking her deal. I will burn her down to the ground before I become the monster she wants me to be.”

Nick looks at me a long moment, and something in his soldier’s face settles. This is the choice he wanted me to take. But he’ll never say it.

He was prepared to support me no matter what.

“Then we do it the hard way.” His voice is still rough from the smoke.

“We do it the right way, which happens to be hard. The dossier goes wide when it’s bulletproof—the Ministry, the newsrooms, all at once. We take it all down. The routes, the licenses, the lot.”

“It’s the only way to be sure.”

I sit back down. “Giulio bought us that clarity. Let’s not waste it.”

Nick nods and begins making the calls that transform a decision into a well-orchestrated operation—contacting the courthouse, newsroom editors owed favors, and technical team members who will synchronize the release to occur simultaneously everywhere in one hour, preventing any individual office from burying it. The dossier I asked him to expand is now all leading to a single big red button we’re about to press.

The thing about Matteo is that he’s old school. He doesn’t understand the information age or the wars fought in it. That is our best asset.

I draft the invitation to Matteo myself in my own hand, because some invitations a man delivers personally. Neutral ground, all the houses, one last table before I press the button. I’ll offer him the buyout a final time across that table, so that when the dossier detonates, every family in Lombardy knows I tried the civilized road twice and Matteo salted it both times.

A war needs a villain, and I intend for it to be him. If he’s the last one standing, I need him to be on his own. They’ll see he cannot be trusted, and they’ll never deal with him again after I’m gone.

I’m sealing it when my phone lights up with a message, and the sender is Allegra. It’s hard not to roll my eyes. The timing is a message of its own—she knows about Bergamo, she knows I’ve been up all night, she’s chosen this exact hour to remind me she’s watching.

It’s a photograph. A busy café sidewalk in the city, sunlit, two women at a small table with espresso between them, both smiling at the camera as though the morning were ordinary.