جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 70

I did not mean to press play.The video was already everywhere. It floated through phones and televisions and whispered conversations in cafés where people pretended not to care but leaned closer anyway. I told myself I would not watch it. I told myself I had seen enough of Luca losing control.But curiosity is quiet and patient.It waits until you are alone.I sat at the small table near the window in Matteo’s apartment, the curtains open just enough to let pale afternoon light spill across the floor. My tea had gone cold beside my hand, untouched. My phone lay face down for several minutes before I finally turned it over and opened the clip.The screen filled with Luca’s living room.I recognized the marble.The tall windows.The sharp echo of a voice that used to speak my name softly in private and loudly in public.Now it was only loud.He was pacing. His movements were uneven. His hand cut through the air like he was arguing with ghosts. A glass shattered somewhere off camera, an

My name does not matter in this house. Men like me do not get remembered.We hold doors.We stand near walls.We speak only when spoken to.That is how it has always been.But I notice things.And lately, there has been too much to notice.I stood outside Luca’s office that afternoon with my hands folded in front of me, staring straight ahead like I was trained to do. The hallway was long and quiet, the marble floor polished enough to reflect the chandelier light above.Inside the office, he was walking again.I could hear it.Step.Turn.Step.Turn.The sound of his shoes striking the floor in sharp rhythm.It had been like that for days now.He used to sit more.He used to lean back in his chair and speak slowly, like a man who knew no one would interrupt him.Now he moved constantly.Like he was trying to outrun something only he could see.The door suddenly opened.I straightened automatically.He walked past me without looking at my face. “Where is Antonio?” he demanded, his voic

Chapter 65-Matteo’s POVThere is nothing dramatic about paper.Paper does not shout.It does not break glasses or slam doors.It slides across desks.It waits in folders.It sits inside quiet offices under yellow light while men pretend they are only doing their jobs.That is how power really moves.Not with noise.With ink.I sat across from a woman who had built her reputation on being careful.Prosecutor Ricci did not smile easily, and she did not raise her voice unless it served a purpose. Today her hands were folded neatly on top of a thin gray file, and her eyes studied me with the patience of someone who understood timing.“You asked for discretion,” she said calmly, adjusting the pen beside her folder while keeping her tone neutral.“And you received it,” I replied, resting my forearms on the edge of her desk. My voice was even, without challenge. “Nothing has reached the press.”She tilted her head slightly.“Yet,” she added.I nodded once.“Yet,” I agreed.The office smelle

Power is not loud.It is not the shouting in conference rooms.It is not the glass breaking on marble.Power is a man answering your call on the first ring.That is how you measure it.I stood in my office with the door locked and the curtains half drawn. The city outside was bright, but the room felt dim. The painting was gone from the wall. The space where it used to hang still looked slightly cleaner than the rest of the plaster.Bare.Exposed.I stared at my phone in my hand for a long moment before dialing.Senator Vittorio Bianchi.We had shared dinners.Private rooms.Quiet agreements.He used to laugh loudly at my jokes and squeeze my shoulder as if we were old friends.The phone rang once.Twice.Three times.It went to voicemail.I lowered the phone slowly and stared at the screen.Voicemail.That had never happened before.He always answered.Even if only to say he would call back.I inhaled through my nose and dialed again.This time it rang longer.Then a click.A woman’

The room was too large for the number of men inside it.That was the first thing I noticed.Not the silence.Not the tension.The space.Chairs that were usually filled sat empty along the long glass table. The leather still smooth. The folders placed neatly in front of seats that no one had claimed. It made the room look abandoned, even though it was not.I stood at the head of the table with both hands resting on the back of my chair, staring at the gaps.Half.Only half had come.The others had sent messages.“Family emergency.”“Out of the country.”“Medical appointment.”One even had the nerve to say he was “monitoring from a distance.”Distance.That word again.Antonio stood near the far wall, tablet in hand, pretending to review notes. He was not reviewing anything. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were pulled back too straight.“They confirmed attendance yesterday,” he said carefully, breaking the silence without lifting his eyes to mine.“I am aware,” I replied, adjusting th