Chapter 1 - The Notebook on the Table
Lorenzo Cattaneo looked at the cold slice of pepperoni pizza sitting beside his bed. Next to it, propped up against his heavily bandaged right thigh, was Bruno the cream-colored teddy bear. The little girl had walked out as casually as if she had just performed an everyday household chore, leaving the most feared cartel boss in northern Italy alone with lukewarm grease and polyester fluff.
For nearly fifteen minutes, Lorenzo did not reach for his encrypted phone, nor did he check the digital feed from the perimeter security cameras. Instead, he lifted the slice and took a single bite. The crust was thick, chewy, and distinctly pedestrian—a far cry from the Michelin-starred dishes his private chefs curated. Yet, it tasted better than anything he had eaten since the ambush shattered his knee.
A sharp tap echoed against the doorframe. Fausto slid into the bedroom, his sharp silhouette cutting through the soft amber lamplight. His eyes dropped to the pizza box, flitted toward the teddy bear resting on the silk sheets, and immediately darted back to his boss’s face. Fausto was too disciplined to crack a smile, but Lorenzo saw the twitch at the corner of his enforcer's mouth.
""Speak,"" Lorenzo said, wiping his fingers on a linen napkin.
""Caruso is singing,"" Fausto reported, his tone instantly shifting into gravel. ""He wasn’t working alone, Boss. He took half a million euros through an offshore account in Cyprus. But the hit wasn't financed by the Neapolitan syndicates. The money traced back closer to home. Someone inside our regional logistics wing funded the contract.""
Lorenzo set his jaw, feeling the dull ache flare up in his fractured ribs. ""Who authorized the clearance codes for the east wall?""
""That's the complication,"" Fausto replied, stepping closer. ""The access logs were wiped from the mainframe thirty minutes before the shooting. It required root administrative privileges. Only four people possess that digital key. I am one. Marco is another. Pietro is the third. And the fourth key belonged to your late brother's estate executor, Emilio Moretti.""
""Emilio,"" Lorenzo murmured, his dark eyes narrowing. Emilio had been like an uncle to him after his father died, handling the syndicate's legitimate real estate holdings while Lorenzo governed the underworld. ""He has no stomach for blood. He hides behind spreadsheets and offshore shell companies.""
""Desperate men find courage in dark corners,"" Fausto noted. ""Emilio’s import-export terminal in Genoa was seized by federal customs two weeks ago. He lost forty million in untreated timber and undeclared assets. He might have needed a quick regime change to wipe his debts clean.""
Before Lorenzo could answer, Fausto pulled a small, worn object from his breast pocket. It was a spiral-bound notebook with rounded corners, its cover decorated with peeling glitter stickers of cartoon cats.
""What is that?"" Lorenzo asked.
""You asked about the Ferraro child,"" Fausto said, setting the tiny notebook gently on the edge of the mattress. ""Her mother left her in the staff quarters while cleaning the south wing. Marco found this sitting on the low stone bench near the courtyard garden—right where the shooter had clear line of sight to the terrace.""
Lorenzo reached out and opened the cover. Inside, drawn with clumsy yet strikingly observant wax crayons, were sketches of the villa. There were crude stick figures with little rectangular guns. But on the third page, scribbled in bold blue wax, was a drawing of a black Mercedes parked beside a delivery van, accompanied by a series of uneven numbers: 7-4-2-9.
Lorenzo stared at the sequence. ""That's not a child’s random imagination.""
""No,"" Fausto whispered. ""That license plate belongs to Emilio Moretti’s private security detail. And according to the timestamp on the estate gate log, that vehicle was parked outside the perimeter an hour before you were shot.""
The room grew dead silent. A three-year-old girl had unwittingly documented the arrival of a death squad with colored wax crayons. Lorenzo closed the notebook, his fingers gripping the spine until his knuckles turned white.
""Bring Sofia Ferraro to me,"" Lorenzo commanded softly. ""And bring the girl.""
May you like
Fausto bowed his head. ""Immediately, Don Lorenzo.""
As the door clicked shut, Lorenzo leaned back into the pillows, his gaze shifting back to Bruno the bear. The danger circling his family was suffocating, but beneath his anger, a strange, protective warmth flared to life. Whoever had targeted him had brought violence under the roof where an innocent child drew pictures in the sun. And for that mistake, Lorenzo decided, someone was going to pay with their life.
