Chapter 11
421 Words
The Maserati cut through the Roman traffic like a blade through silk, the engine’s growl a low-frequency vibration that matched the humming in my veins. Dante drove with a grim, practiced silence, navigating the narrow arteries of the city while I stared at the passing blur of marble and history.
"You’re thinking about the Shadow," Dante said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Your father spent thirty years trying to forget that man existed. You’re inviting him back into the house."
"The house is already burning, Dante," I replied, my thumb tracing the edge of the flash drive. "I’m just choosing who gets to watch it fall."
We pulled into a side street off the Piazza hub, where the shadow of the Pantheon loomed like a silent witness. I didn't go for the tourist stalls; I headed for a featureless storefront tucked between a gelateria and a big bookshop. The sign above the door simply read L'Archivio.
Inside, the air smelled of ozone and expensive ink. A man with skin-like parchment looked up from a desk covered in mechanical watch parts. This was the Piazza hub, a neutral ground for the kind of agreements that never touched a server.
"I need a cipher-seal," I said, placing a heavy gold coin on the counter—an heirloom of the Salvatore private mint. "And a messenger for a one-way trip to the Lloyd’s of London building. Hand-delivery only."
The old man nodded, his eyes darting to the bulge of the revolver at my back. He didn't ask questions; at this level, questions were a death sentence. He handed me a sheet of parchment and a wax seal bearing a symbol that hadn't been used since the Black Nobility era.
I scribbled a single line of coordinates and a frequency code. It wasn't a letter; it was a flare fired into the dark. By the time I stepped back out into the steel-cold air, the message was already moving.
"To the airport now?" Dante asked, holding the door open.
Now," I said, my voice hardening. "The Broker will have signaled the Cayman accounts by the time we hit cruising altitude. If the Liquidator is as fast as the stories say, he’ll be waiting for me in the London fog."
As the Maserati accelerated toward Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport, I felt the weight of the Salvatore name, finally shifting. It wasn't a burden anymore; it was a weapon.
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