"Vittorio"
I watched the elevator doors close after the kid with the messy hair disappeared down the corridor.
"Don Vittorio... want us to take care of it?" Enzo, my right-hand man, asked with his hand still inside his blazer, waiting for my order to track the kid down.
In our world, any unexpected approach could be an assassination attempt. A cup of coffee could just as easily be acid or a distraction for a knife. But that kid — his eyes had been wide with pure, genuine terror. He was too transparent to be a killer.
"No," I replied, letting out an irritated sigh as I looked at the dark stain spreading across my Italian silk shirt. "Just an incompetent idiot. Let's head to the penthouse. I have a meeting with the accountants in ten minutes."
We rode up to the fortieth floor — my territory. No one entered without express authorization. On the surface, I was Vittorio Marchetti, the billionaire behind a logistics and export empire. In the underworld, I was the Don of the Marchetti family, the man who controlled the ports, the routes, and the money that fed half the country.
I walked into my conference room. Five senior accountants were waiting for me, all sweating through their collars.
"Where are the laundering reports for the last container shipment?" I asked, taking my seat at the head of the table after changing my shirt.
The chief accountant, an older man who'd worked for my father, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Don Vittorio, we had a small... setback. The automated diversion script had a glitch. Five million dollars were temporarily listed in the general ledger of the legitimate company."
I slammed my hand on the glass table, making every man in the room jump in his chair.
"You're telling me the money from our arms shipment is visible to any regular employee in this company?!"
"We're already erasing the trail, sir! But... since the report was auto-generated at six this morning, it was pushed to the internal network accessible to junior analysts. If anyone opens the spreadsheet before we delete it—"
My eyes narrowed. Fury churned in my chest. If some ordinary employee saw those numbers and started asking questions, the Marchetti empire would be at risk.
"Find out who accessed that network in the last two hours. Now," I ordered Enzo.
Less than three minutes later, Enzo returned with a tablet in his hands. His expression was a mix of tension and surprise.
"Don Vittorio... the system shows that only one junior analyst downloaded the export spreadsheet thirty minutes ago."
"Who?" I asked, my voice cold as ice.
Enzo turned the tablet screen toward me. In the corporate profile photo, the same kid from the elevator — with his unruly hair and a shy smile — stared back at the camera. Beneath the photo, the name: Leo Albuquerque.
A dark smile formed on my lips.
First he spills coffee on me. Then he stumbles onto the biggest secret in my organization.
"Enzo," I called, rising from my chair. "Bring Mr. Albuquerque to my office. And close the curtains."
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