Page 110 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Four hours.
No trace.
No return.
Just a folded envelope.
Delivered by hand, at a particular location.
Instead of waiting at the estate, I get out.
The staff is tense.
The guards keep looking over their shoulders.
Even the girls have gone quiet.
Before getting into the car, I look to the south wing window and see Arietta watching me.
She doesn’t blink.
She’s starting to read the silence the way we used to read tension in the streets.
The next few hours, I don’t do much else except drive, eat lunch, and then drive some more.
Finally, I stop at an old storefront near the Salerno docks, one we used to move paperwork through back when the Rossi coastal lines still ran clean.
It’s been shuttered since the border agents started sniffing too close to the ferry routes.
In the gutter pipe, sealed in plastic, the envelope waits.
No name.
No marking.
Just three stapled pages and a clipped photograph.
I read them against the bricks, my back to the alley mouth.
The code doesn’t point to Rafaelle Rossi.
The burner was registered to a shell company—long-defunct—embedded in the Rossi food distribution network.
One of the older firms that handled cross-border logistics before the marriage alliance.
Its last operational handler was a man named Silvano D’Alba.
I remember him.
Southern manifest prep.
Clean.
Quiet.
The kind of man who followed orders because they gave him shape.
He vanished two months ago.
