The Alfa Romeo's engine idles with a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrates through the soles of Tommaso’s leather shoes. Dusk has settled over the slopes of Etna, turning the volcanic soil to a bruised purple and the air to a sharp, mineral chill. Before him, the wrought-iron gates of the Ferrante estate stand as high as a cathedral’s nave, their black bars twisted into defensive spikes.
He kills the ignition, and the sudden silence of the Sicilian evening is heavy with the scent of wild rosemary and old money. Twenty years, he thinks, his hand drifting to the small silver medal beneath his linen shirt. He is not here to restore a Caravaggio; he is here to perform an autopsy on the empire that swallowed his brother whole. His fingers, calloused from decades of scraping varnish, are steady on the steering wheel, though his heart marks a different time.
A mechanical groan vibrates through the gravel as the security system engages. From deep within the walled compound, a pair of yellow headlights cut through the gloom, casting long, skeletal shadows of the iron bars across his dashboard. A figure moves behind the blinding glare. Headlights sweep across the bars, illuminating the slow, heavy approach of Salvatore Ferrante.
