Naples, 2002
Alba Marino
She arrived without announcement, stepping off the black train dressed like a diplomat's daughter.
Naples was louder than Monteverde. But underneath the chaos was something colder.
Business.
Alba walked straight to Villa Rosetta, a historic café known for espresso and bribes.
The man she came to meet sat in a booth by the window, gold rings on every finger and a lazy grin that never reached his eyes.
Cesare Vivaldi.
"You're Enzo's little flame," he said. "Didn't think you'd burn this far north."
Alba smiled sweetly. "Fire travels fast when it's fed well."
She slid a folder across the table. Inside: evidence of Gianni's hidden accounts in Romania, smuggled under false names and shell companies.
"Keep this," she said. "Or sell it to the right enemy. I only want one thing in return."
"And what's that?"
"Gianni. Alive."
Cesare laughed. "You don't want him dead?"
She leaned closer.
"I want him cornered. Then I want him to see my face."
---
Gianni
When the photos surfaced—his accounts, his signatures, his offshore men—Gianni knew.
She had made her first kill.
Not with bullets.
With paper.
But he wasn't running yet.
He had one piece she hadn't taken from him.
Her mother.
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