The rain had softened to a whisper against the glass.
The city outside was drowning in gray, but inside, silence ruled like a monarch.
Matteo poured two fingers of scotch — neat, deliberate — and stared into the glass, untouched.
The door opened with a quiet knock, followed by soft but swift footsteps.
"Don," Bianca said, her voice measured, "I have something."
Matteo didn't turn.
"Talk."
She stepped further in, her tablet tucked against her chest like a confession.
"We couldn't trace the leak directly to the traitor, but…" She stopped, choosing her words. "We found his rat."
Now he turned, slowly.
Eyes sharp. Empty.
She handed him a file, printed and bound.
"His name is Pietro Vargas. Junior analyst in your financial strategy team. Just three months into the job."
Matteo didn't take the file. His gaze held hers instead.
Bianca continued, pulse quick but face unreadable. "He's been using encrypted dead drops — data buried in dummy invoices, routed through offshore shells. Sophisticated for someone that low on the ladder."
"So he's not acting alone," Matteo said, quiet but ice-thin.
"No. He's being handled. Carefully."
A pause.
"Where is he now?" Matteo asked.
"Still in the building. He just finished lunch. I had him shadowed discreetly. He thinks no one suspects."
A slow nod from Matteo. His lips barely moved. "Bring him to the lower floor. Conference Room C. Strip the cameras."
"Yes, Don."
She turned to go, but his voice stopped her.
"Bianca."
She turned back, hand already on the door.
"Don't let security handle him. I want him breathing when I ask my first question."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded.
"I'll see to it personally."
The door closed behind her, leaving Matteo in the silence again.
He looked down at the untouched scotch.
Then, finally, took a sip — slow.
Controlled.
Like a man preparing for a conversation that wouldn't end with words.
Floor 3 – West Wing Corridor
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Bianca moved with purpose through the hall, her long coat swaying behind her.
She had swapped her heels for quieter flats—no sound but the soft shuffle of tailored leather across marble.
She passed two guards at the stairwell—no eye contact, just a subtle nod.
They followed.
Down another flight. Past closed conference rooms.
Pietro Vargas sat at a corner desk, typing away on his laptop, oblivious.
He looked young. Too young. Neat hair, off-the-rack suit, coffee-stained tie.
Bianca stopped.
"Pietro?"
He looked up, surprised. Blinked. Smiled politely.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"There's a quick issue with a client file. Don Matteo needs clarification. Conference Room C."
"Uh, now?" His gaze flicked toward the exit before snapping back. Not confusion. Not hesitation. Resentment.
"Yes. Now."
She watched it — the flicker in his eyes. That small pause. Not confusion, not hesitation. Fear. But he covered it quickly, closed his laptop, grabbed a pen as if it gave him control.
"Of course. Lead the way."
Bianca turned without a word. He followed. The guards joined from behind, flanking him casually, not too close — not yet.
The elevator ride was silent.
Pietro stood still, pretending not to feel the tension coiling around his spine.
He kept glancing at his reflection in the chrome elevator door.
His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Bianca caught it all in her peripheral. She didn't speak. Just waited.
Basement Level – Conference Room C
The door opened with a soft hiss.
Empty, except for one chair.
Bianca stepped aside and gestured in. "Have a seat."
He frowned. "Aren't we waiting for—?"
"I said, sit."
Pietro blinked at her. "Is… is something wrong?"
"No." Her smile was faint, razor-thin. "We just don't like rats running loose in clean halls."
His breath caught.
Too late.
The guards stepped in behind him, closing the door with a dull click.
And silence returned.
Conference Room C – Basement Level
Bianca folded her arms and leaned against the table.
The chair scraped lightly as Pietro sat, shoulders stiff, fingers drumming faintly on his thigh.
The guards stood like statues behind him.
She dropped a folder onto the table—photos clipped, documents exposed.
One image sat on top: a phone screen, mid-text, timestamped two nights ago.
Pietro's gaze flicked to it. Then away.
"Do you recognize this?" she asked coolly.
No response.
Bianca slowly walked around the table, each step deliberate. "We tracked the sender. The signal bounced, but not well enough. A third-party network routed through a terminal you logged into twice this week."
Still nothing.
"I'm going to ask you again, Pietro. Who are you working for?"
He stared forward. Blank. Almost bored. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Her tone sharpened. "Do not play stupid."
"I'm not." His voice was quiet, emotionless. "You people think anyone who disagrees is a traitor."
She leaned in closer, her voice like ice. "Disagreeing is not the same as leaking trade routes. You sold privileged movement logs to someone outside the family. That could've gotten Matteo killed."
He finally looked at her, smirk just barely forming. "Maybe it wouldn't have been such a loss."
The guards shifted slightly behind him. Bianca didn't flinch.
"No regret?" she asked. "No second thought?"
Pietro shook his head, smile thin and bitter. "You all sit in towers pretending you own the world. But you forget who keeps it running. You forget the ones cleaning up your mess."
She nodded slowly. "And I'm cleaning up one now."
Bianca stepped back. Pulled out her phone. Dialed one number.
A moment passed. Then:
"Yes?"
Her voice turned calm again. "Don Matteo… it's confirmed. He's the rat. Refuses to speak. No remorse."
Silence on the other end.
Then:
"Bring him up."
Rooftop – The Tower
The iron door groaned open.
Pietro stepped out between two guards, wrists cuffed, but he didn't resist.
The rooftop air was sharp—thin, cold, biting. Wind curled across the open space, pulling at his collar. Ahead, Don Matteo stood alone, his coat still despite the breeze, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed on the distant skyline.
Silence.
Pietro squinted toward the horizon. "Nice view," he muttered.
Matteo didn't turn. "It always is. Even when the city beneath it's rotting."
The wind answered, low and constant.
"You were good with numbers," Matteo said after a long pause, his voice calm but edged. "Tell me—do you know why you're here?"
Pietro gave a short snort, refusing to answer.
Matteo turned slowly. His face wasn't angry. It was worse—quietly disappointed. Heavy with tired clarity.
"I would've understood," he said. "If it was fear. Debt. Even blackmail. But you…" He stepped closer, studying the man who once sat at his table. "You did it because you wanted to."
Pietro's jaw clenched. "I got tired. Of pretending. Of watching men like you worship loyalty while building power off everyone else's backs."
"So you sold information to destroy us."
"No," Pietro said. "I sold it because you deserved to burn."
The guards flinched slightly but didn't move. Matteo lifted a hand, signaling stillness.
He stepped closer, now face-to-face. His voice dropped lower. "I gave you a seat at my table. You used it to aim at my back."
Pietro smirked. "I never wanted your future. I just wanted to be the crack in your perfect glass."
Matteo didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"Who is it?" he asked.
Pietro's grin widened. "You'll find out. But not from me."
Another silence. Matteo inhaled through his nose, slow and steady.
The city wind wrapped around them like judgment.
"You had your chance," he said softly. "We don't keep rats, Pietro."
He turned, just slightly. "Uncuff him."
One guard obeyed.
The metal clicked.
Pietro rolled his wrists as the cuffs fell to the ground. He didn't run. Didn't beg.
"I knew it'd end like this," he said, voice distant. "Better than dying behind a desk."
Matteo gave a single nod.
The gunshot split the rooftop air. For a second, the wind seemed to stop. Then Pietro crumpled, the city swallowing the sound.
No scream. Just the dull thud of a body hitting concrete.
Silence.
The kind that lingers in the lungs.
"Get rid of the body before sunrise," Matteo said.
"Yes, Don," one of the guards replied.
Matteo didn't move. The wind rushed again, this time louder. Or maybe the rooftop just felt emptier now.
As the guards went to work, Matteo stared out at the city — vast, glittering, rotting. He never looked back.