Page 188

For one moment, the road disappeared.

A boy knelt in front of me.

Fourteen years old.

My pistol pressed against his forehead.

Terrified eyes trapped inside the crimes of men; their fathers, their uncles.

The memory tightened my fist around empty air. The medic pushed the stretcher away. Raze caught the back of my neck.

“You hit?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

He looked over me once, searching for blood that didn’t belong to someone else. Only then did he release me.

Greco’s voice broke through the channel.

“Rome teams moving.”

The time had passed seven. Across the country, doors were coming down.

Artemus began feeding results through Atlas.

“Ferretti detained at his residence.”

A pause.

“Three Coccico accountants in custody.”

Another voice answered behind him.

“San Michele offices secured. Servers appear intact.”

Phones began vibrating around us. The Serra files had gone live. Atlas read the first headline from the ridge.

“International trafficking syndicate exposed through Rome investigation.”

Another alert appeared.

“Police, business leaders and clergy named in leaked trafficking records.”

Then another.

“The Serra Files: How charities and corrupt officials moved women through European ports.”

The reports spread faster than the Coccicos could silence them.

Photographs of missing women appeared beside shipping manifests. Financial journalists followed payments through shell companies in Malta and Cyprus. Italian broadcasters began naming the officers and officials who had buried complaints, delayed inspections and warned warehouses before raids.

Bishop Ferretti’s messages appeared beside photographs of the San Michele Relief Foundation. His words were printed exactly as he had written them.

Use the rear entrance.

No registration.