“Not classroom Italian.”

“My grandfather raised me outside Florence for several years.”

One of the older men at the table leaned forward.

“Which town?”

Evelyn looked at him.

“Why does that matter?”

The man’s mouth closed.

Adrian studied her.

“What was your grandfather’s name?”

A strange instinct moved faster than thought.

“Marco Hart.”

Adrian’s gaze remained on her face.

“Your maternal grandfather was named Hart?”

“My mother remarried.”

It was a terrible lie.

Adrian knew it.

She knew he knew it.

But instead of challenging her, he nodded.

“You should go home.”

Evelyn collected her phone.

She almost reached the door before Adrian said, “Ms.

Hart.”

She turned.

His expression had softened by a fraction.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The sincerity unsettled her more than suspicion had.

“Thank you.”

She left.

Halfway along the corridor, she heard Italian behind the closed doors.

Adrian’s voice.

“Her grandfather wasn’t named Marco Hart.”

Another man answered too quietly to hear.

Then Adrian said, “Find out who he really was.”

Evelyn kept walking.

Her legs felt numb.

At the elevator, she pressed the button three times.

The doors opened.

A cream envelope lay on the carpet.

Her name was written across it.

EVELYN HART.

No postage.

No company markings.

Inside was a photograph.

Her grandfather stood on a dock beside a man who looked remarkably like a younger Adrian Calder.

Behind them rose a weathered warehouse and the crane-lined silhouette of a Mediterranean port.

Three other men stood nearby.

One face had been scratched away with black ink.

On the back, someone had written:

HE KNOWS WHAT WE BURIED.

Below it was a date.

October 14, 1998.

Evelyn stopped breathing.

Her grandfather had mentioned October seconds before he died.

The elevator doors began closing.

She hit OPEN.

Then she noticed something worse.

The photograph’s supposed Adrian wasn’t Adrian.

The eyebrows were different.

The mouth was harder.

And Adrian had a narrow scar above his left eyebrow that this man lacked.

The elevator descended.

Evelyn called the hospital.

A nurse answered.

“I’m calling about Lorenzo Moretti.”

A pause.

“His belongings have already been released.”

“To whom?”

“A family representative.”

“I am his family.”

Another pause.

“The gentleman knew Signor Moretti’s private authorization phrase.”

Evelyn’s skin went cold.

“What phrase?”

“I cannot disclose—”

“Please.

He died while speaking to me.”

The nurse hesitated.

“La campana tace a mezzanotte.”

The bell is silent at midnight.

The elevator opened into the lobby.

Adrian Calder stood near the revolving doors.

Alone.

Evelyn stared at him.

“How did you get here before me?”

“Private elevator.”

His eyes dropped to the photograph.

His expression broke.

Only for a second.

Recognition.

Then anger.

“Where did you get that?”

“It was waiting in the elevator.”

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Evelyn.”

“You knew him.”

Adrian looked toward the lobby entrance.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Not here.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Two men entered through the revolving doors.

Adrian’s posture changed instantly.

He stepped between Evelyn and them.

“Walk.”

She pulled away when he touched her elbow.

“Don’t.”

“If those men reach us, my manners will become the least of your concerns.”

The strangers separated.

One headed toward the security desk.

The other moved directly toward them.

Adrian guided Evelyn toward a secured stairwell.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

“People who shouldn’t know