By noon, the city believed in Cesare again- the morning shows replayed his hospital speech with an overlay of strings, a crawl about philanthropy under pressure. By three, the pressure stopped being metaphor.
“Payroll lanes frozen,” Nora reported, a wicked light in her voice. “We touched the feeders like you asked. His dock crews aren’t paid, his courier stipends pinged ‘error,’ and the supplier in Gioia Tauro just demanded cash on arrival.”
“Now the charity,” Emilia said. “Bleed the halo.”
Nora’s fingers settled into a rhythm on the keyboard. “Ghosted invoices printed and time-stamped,” she sang. “All true enough to pass a sniff, all crooked enough to embarrass a saint.”
“Leak them to two outlets that hate each other,” Emilia said, watching the skyline sharpen through her glass. “Let
