The night pressed heavy over Milan, shadows pooling against the velvet curtains of Elena's study. She sat cross-legged on the Persian rug, her father's leather trunk open before her. Dust clung to the edges, the scent of cedar and old paper wafting up as though her father's memory had seeped into every crease.

Her hands trembled as she pulled out the yellowed folders, one by one. She had gone searching for supplier contracts, anything to buy Rossi more time. What she found instead stopped her ...