Interpol Field Office – Palermo

The glass-walled interrogation room smelled of bleach and fear. Alessandro owned it anyway. He leaned back in the metal chair, jacket perfectly straight, gaze steady enough to make the agents sweat. His voice was calm, mocking, devastating.

“Testimony, redactions, recycled evidence,” he drawled. “Tell me—when you typed up this farce, did you at least proofread it? Or were you too busy asking the Senator which color tie to wear for her camera ...