The obsidian desk felt like a cold altar between the generations. Cesare De Luca did not move, his silhouette framed by the twilight of Rome, but the air in the library grew heavy, saturated with the sudden, sharp scent of ozone and old dust. He looked at the two of them—his son, the soldier who had found a soul, and the Romano girl, the collateral who had found her voice—with the detached fascination of a man watching his own reflection shatter.
"An audit," Cesare repeated, the word sounding like a mockery in his cultured baritone. "You want to audit the Iron Crown? You might as well ask to audit the wind, Matteo. This debt is woven into the very fabric of the republic. It is the cost of every road you’ve driven on and every light that flickers in Porto Vento."
"Then it’s time for the b
