Alessandro's mother and sister arrived on Saturday.
Lucia looked exhausted. Like the week since Eduardo's death had aged her ten years. The grief was real — Alessandro didn't doubt that — but underneath it was something older. Something that looked almost like relief, though she would never have named it that. Isabella looked worried. Confused. She'd flown in from Milan without knowing why, just that her brother needed her urgently.
They met in Alessandro's apartment. Not the office. This wasn't business. This was family. And what Alessandro was about to tell them would change everything.
He laid out the documents on his dining table. The real books. The contracts with Dmitri Volkov and others like him. The proof of what Eduardo had really been doing for the past five years.
