IGNAZIO
The only sound in my office was the faint rustle of paper and the occasional creak of my chair as I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes scanning every line of the document in front of me.
Old documents. Classified ones. The kind passed down from Alpha to Alpha, hidden from the public eye and guarded with blood.
Most people thought the real weight of leadership was policy and diplomacy. They didn’t see this part.
The secrets.
The stains.
The ghosts.
I stared at the signature again—Fabrizio Narducci—written in heavy ink across a ledger filled with names, transfers, transactions. Every line a story. Every number a scar.
My grandfather had built an empire. But the foundation was not as pure as the legend claimed.
A knock on the study door was followed by the heavy shuf
