In the grand mahogany study of the Ferrante estate, the air felt thin and suffocating.
Bruno Ferrante was standing behind Don Gio's desk, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his face flushed with anger. On the table in front of him, three encrypted satellite phones were ringing at the same time.
His private secretary, a thin man named Sergio whose hands were trembling, backed away from the desk.
"Speak," Bruno snarled, pointing a finger at him. "Give me the count."
"Thirty regional captain accounts," Sergio choked out, looking down at his tablet. "Zero transfers cleared at noon. The central reserve account at the northern customs house was flagged for an administrative audit at five this morning."
"Audit?" Bruno slammed his fist onto the mahogany desktop, making the crystal inkwell jump. "Who authorized an audit?"
