Page 97 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
The safe’s open.
Not broken into—opened.
No sign of forced entry.
No documents inside.
And on the floor, half tucked beneath the desk like it slid under during a shuffle, is a strip of cloth.
Worn canvas.
Deep green, stitched in a pattern that stops me cold.
It’s a packing cover from a Sicily-based customs run we dismantled six years ago.
I ran one of those convoys.
Only five men knew the marker we used to tag crates with classified contents.
None of those five were supposed to be alive now—two dead, two retired, one gone without a trace.
I crouch, folding the cloth once and slipping it into my inner pocket.
"Who had key access to the safe?" I ask.
Tavo scratches the back of his neck.
"Only Sandro and the guy from records. Sandro’s in Ibiza this week. The other guy...didn’t show."
"Name?"
"Ernesto Carra."
I’ve never heard it.
After taking one last look around the office, I gesture for Tavo to lock it up again.
By the time I return to the estate, the sun is already slipping behind the tree line, dragging a burned haze across the courtyard.
I don’t go to the south wing.
I don’t stop for a drink.
I head straight to the west study.
Luca’s already inside, jacket off, sleeves rolled, hunched over a dossier with a pen between his fingers.
Marco’s at the sideboard pouring two fingers of scotch, his expression unreadable.
I toss the canvas strip onto the table.
It lands with a flat sound.
Luca looks down at it.
Doesn’t touch it.
"Warehouse was intact," I say. "No damage to the cargo. Only the safe. Records are gone. No sign of forced entry."
