Matteo’s POV
There is nothing dramatic about paper.
Paper does not shout.
It does not break glasses or slam doors.
It slides across desks.
It waits in folders.
It sits inside quiet offices under yellow light while men pretend they are only doing their jobs.
That is how power really moves.
Not with noise.
With ink.
I sat across from a woman who had built her reputation on being careful.
Prosecutor Ricci did not smile easily, and she did not raise her voice unless it served a purpose. Today her hands were folded neatly on top of a thin gray file, and her eyes studied me with the patience of someone who understood timing.
“You asked for discretion,” she said calmly, adjusting the pen beside her folder while keeping her tone neutral.
“And you received it,” I replied, resting my fo
