The Trenitalia silver bullet shrieked through the Tuscan countryside at three hundred kilometers per hour, a blur of white and steel against the predawn mist. Inside the first-class cabin, the air was silent, save for the low hum of the electric motors and the rhythmic tapping of Seraphina’s fingers against her tablet.
She wasn't looking at the scenery. She was watching a global map of digital pings—Vincenzo’s footprint. The Interpol Red Notice she had triggered in the Vatican was a double-edged sword. It had forced the "Information Sovereign" into the shadows, but it had also turned the eyes of every intelligence agency in Europe toward the very trail she was trying to follow.
"He’s not in Rome anymore," Seraphina said, her voice barely audible over the wind. She looked across the narro
