At the opposite end of the table, two senior captains were discussing a shipment that had been delayed at the docks.
Adrian listened without interrupting.
"The warehouse is still sealed," one captain explained. "The police have not entered, but somebody has been asking questions."
"Who?"
"We don't know."
"Then find out."
The captain nodded.
Vittorio cut a piece of veal.
"You're becoming impatient."
Adrian looked at him.
"Someone is interfering with our business."
"Someone always interferes with our business."
"Not this way."
Vittorio placed his knife down.
"Your father would have waited before moving."
"My father is dead."
The room went quiet.
Marco glanced at his plate.
Vittorio slowly leaned back.
"Yes. And he died because he believed everyone around him was loyal."
Adrian's eyes remained on his uncle.
"Is there a reason you're reminding me of that tonight?"
"Perhaps I am reminding you that a family cannot survive on suspicion."
Adrian took a sip of wine.
"Neither can it survive on blind trust."
Vittorio studied him for a moment.
Then he smiled without warmth.
"You sound more like your grandfather every day."
Before Adrian could answer, the dining room doors opened.
A housekeeper entered.
"Mr. Moretti, Miss Isabella is here."
Adrian's expression softened.
"Where?"
"In the entrance hall."
He stood immediately.
Vittorio noticed.
"So the meeting is over?"
Adrian picked up his jacket.
"For me, yes."
A faint expression of irritation crossed his uncle's face.
"One day, Adrian, you'll have to decide whether you intend to run a family or spend your life chasing a woman."
Adrian stopped beside the doorway.
He looked back.
"My father spent his life running this family."
His voice was calm.
"Look how that turned out."
Then he left.
***
Isabella Romano stood beneath the marble archway of the entrance hall.
She was twenty-eight, with dark brown hair falling just below her shoulders, expressive eyes, and the kind of beauty that became more noticeable the longer someone looked at her.
She wore a cream-colored coat over a simple black dress. Her shoes were damp from the rain, and she held a leather folder against her chest.
She did not belong to the Moretti world.
That was precisely what had attracted Adrian to her.
Her father, Daniel Romano, had been an accountant. Not a particularly wealthy one. He had spent most of his life working for a small financial firm in Manhattan, helping ordinary businesses understand numbers that powerful men used to hide their mistakes.
When Isabella was twenty-two, her father died of a heart attack.
Six months later, she discovered that his employer had been involved in laundering money for several criminal organizations.
One of those organizations belonged to the Moretti family.
She had first met Adrian while trying to understand why her father's final accounts contained payments to companies that did not appear to exist.
He had been the last person she expected to help her.
He had also been the first person who told her the truth.
Not all of it.
But enough.
"You're late," she said when he approached.
Adrian smiled.
"I own the house. I can't be late."
"That's exactly the kind of thing a spoiled man would say."
"I prefer powerful."
"There's a difference."
"Not in this house."
She tried not to smile.
He took her coat and handed it to the housekeeper.
Then he noticed the folder.
"What's that?"
"Something I found."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It probably is."
His smile disappeared.
"Isabella."
She looked at him.
"I found another account connected to my father's old company."
"Where?"
"An offshore holding company. The name is different, but the registration numbers match."
Adrian's face became still.
"Show me."
She opened the folder.
Inside were photocopies of bank transfers, company registrations, and several handwritten notes.
Adrian examined the documents.
The first page meant nothing to him.
The second made him frown.
The third made him stop.
"Where did you get this?"
"From an archive connected to my father's former employer."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Nobody. I found it myself."
Adrian closed the folder.
"You're going to stop looking."
Isabella stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
"Whatever you think you're investigating, leave it alone."
"That isn't an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
She pulled the folder from his hand.
"My father spent the last year of his life trying to understand these transactions. He died before he could finish."
"And you think following his work is going to bring him back?"