The private dining room above Savio's held a long table, twelve chairs, and no windows.

The walls were dark wood.

The lighting came from a single fixture overhead that cast everything in a warm amber that felt, under the circumstances, deeply wrong.

Seven families.

Eleven men and two women, seated or standing when Valentina walked in at eight fifty-eight.

Renata Ferraro was at the head of the table.

She saw Valentina in the doorway and didn't move.

But her right hand, which had been resting flat on the table, curled slowly inward.

"Valentina," she said.

"I wasn't aware you'd been informed of this meeting."

"I wasn't." Valentina walked to the nearest empty chair and stood behind it.

"I found out through other means."

A man named Corso, representing the Abruzzo family, leaned back in his chair.

"This is irregular."

"It is," Valentina agreed.

"So is organizing a meeting about the Carbone family without inviting the Carbone family."

No one answered that directly.

But two of the men at the table shifted.

Renata recovered quickly.

"This was intended as a preliminary review.

A private discussion before any formal—"

"Before any formal what?" Valentina set the envelope on the table.

"Before you presented evidence that I've been stealing from the eastern network since Carlo d*ed?"

The room went still.

Renata's expression didn't break.

"Those are serious words."

"They're your words.

Or the words you paid two people to carry into my garden today, inside modified soda cans, hidden in a catering cooler that your contact recommended to my head of security." Valentina looked around the table.

"I have both of those people in a room at my estate right now.

They've told me everything."

Renata stood.

"Whatever they told you—"

"Sit down, Renata."

The quiet authority in it was enough.

Renata sat.

Valentina opened the envelope and removed the first document.

She placed it at the center of the table.

"These are the files from the drives you sent.

Transaction records, formatted to look like Carbone ledger exports, covering forty months of alleged theft." She placed the second document beside it.

"This is a comparison between the digital authorization signature used on every single one of those transactions and the current Carbone signing protocol — along with the documented retirement date of the old signature key."

She looked at the two financial advisors she had personally called before arriving.

Both of them leaned forward.

"Every transaction on those drives was signed with a key I retired eighteen months ago," Valentina said.

"Including transactions that allegedly occurred last month.

The forgery is not subtle.

It is simply designed for a room that wasn't expected to look closely."

One of the advisors, a woman named Holt who worked for the Delaney family, picked up both documents and read for approximately forty seconds.

Then she set them down.

"She's right," Holt said.

"The signature key mismatch is definitive.

These records are fabricated."

Renata's voice came out flat and hard.

"You had time to prepare a counter-document.

That proves nothing about the original—"

"The original is right there," Valentina said.

"Both documents are on the table.

The retirement records for the signing key are a matter of internal Carbone documentation that any of you can request independently." She looked at Renata.

"You built a very convincing forgery.

But you built it with old tools."

The room was quiet.

Then Corso said: "Renata.

Did you organize this meeting on the basis of documents you knew to be fabricated?"

Renata's composure, which had held through everything, finally showed its edge.

"Carlo built that network.

The eastern accounts were his.

After he d*ed, the revenue didn't stop — but the reporting to the Ferraro side did.

I had reason to believe—"

"You had grief," Valentina said.

"And someone gave you a story that fit it.

I don't know who built those files, Renata.

But I intend to find out.

And when I do, I think you'll discover that whoever handed you that evidence was using your loss the same way you tried to use this table — as a room full of people who would react before they looked closely."

Renata stared at her.

Something moved behind her eyes.

Not defeat.

Not yet.

But the first crack of doubt.

"The meeting is over," Valentina said.

"But I'd like to speak with each of you individually in the coming days.

What happened tonight deserved a better room than this."

She picked up her envelope, nodded once to the table, and walked to the door.

She was almost through it when Renata spoke.

"What happens to me now?"

Valentina stopped.

She didn't turn around immediately.

Then she said: "That depends entirely on who gave you those drives and what you're willing to tell me about them."

She walked out.

Marco fell into step beside her on the stairs.

He didn't say anything until they reached the street.

"Holt's going to talk," he said.

"She'll have told three people what she saw on that document before she gets home."

"Good," Valentina said.

"That's exactly what I need."

"And Renata?"

Valentina looked at the car.

"She's not the architect.

She's the room they chose to use." She opened the door.

"Find out who built the files.

That's the conversation I actually need to have."