(Isabella’s POV)
The following day passed in a blur of tense, focused energy. The penthouse, once a silent, lonely space, was now a humming nerve center. Analysts I had never seen before worked silently at computer terminals set up in the living room, their faces illuminated by the glow of cascading data. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the low murmur of hushed, strategic conversations. And at the heart of it all was the study, my quiet sanctuary, now our shared war room.
Alessandro had given me everything I needed. An entire team of forensic accountants was at my disposal, ready to investigate any anomaly I found in the ledgers. But the work was slow, meticulous. It was like learning a language only two dead men had spoken. My father’s shorthand and Antonio De Luca’s marg
