The Study Room – Unearthing the Trail
The study room smelled of cigar smoke and old leather, the dim glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows against the bookshelves. The weight of centuries of knowledge pressed in from the towering shelves, yet all the wisdom in these books paled in comparison to what lay on the screen before them.
Vincenzo sat at the head of the mahogany desk, his fingers steepled in thought. His sharp eyes studied Theo, who was absorbed in his work, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his glasses. The kid had talent. Ruthless, methodical, brilliant. But Vincenzo also knew that genius bred arrogance, and arrogance bred mistakes.
Marco leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his ever-watchful gaze flicking between the monitors and Vincenzo. His instincts were sharp—he trusted Theo's skills, but trust didn't mean letting his guard down. The low hum of the computer filled the air, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of Theo's fingers on the keyboard.
Each keystroke peeled back another layer of the deception. Offshore accounts, shell companies, digital laundering—this wasn't just the work of a street-level operative. This was a masterclass in financial concealment.
Bastardi… Theo muttered, his eyes narrowing as he ran a final script. His voice was tinged with both frustration and admiration. Whoever set this up was no amateur. This wasn't just greed—it was strategy.
"Rico isn't just corrupt," he continued, his voice quieter now, almost reverent in its disbelief. "He's operating on a scale that suggests backing from someone powerful—someone patient. This isn't just some disposable slush fund. It's a fully insulated financial architecture, designed to keep money flowing undetected for years."
Vincenzo leaned forward, his face unreadable but his mind already working through the implications. Powerful and patient? That narrowed the list considerably.
"Explain."
Theo adjusted his glasses, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "We're looking at a multi-tiered obfuscation network. The money is funneled through at least six offshore banks—BVI, Luxembourg, the Caymans, Hong Kong, Serbia, and a secondary network in Montenegro. Each transaction is routed through intermediary accounts, designed to mimic legitimate business expenses. Some of these companies actually exist, but their revenue streams have been doctored to include false inflows—meaning someone has been forging corporate tax filings to make everything appear legitimate."
Marco let out a low whistle. "That's not personal wealth—that's war money."
Theo smirked, pulling up a separate window. "Exactly. And here's where it gets interesting. The funds cycle through crypto bridges—Monero, Tornado Cash, and Wasabi wallets. These are privacy mixers. They blend dirty money with clean transactions before it ever re-enters the banking system. Once the crypto is scrubbed, it gets cashed out through prepaid cards or real estate purchases under different shell corporations."
He tapped a command. A list of transactions appeared, a spiderweb of numbers stretching across continents.
"I traced it all back to a single offshore trust in Serbia. The main account—Elysium Financial Holdings—doesn't officially exist in any ledger. No tax records. No board of directors. Just a few forged documents registering it under a fake identity. That alone is suspicious, but when I backtracked further, the name associated with the trust popped up in another set of records."
Theo's finger hovered over a highlighted name on the screen.
"Vitore."
The room went silent.
Vincenzo didn't move, but Marco stiffened. The Vitore family. One of the old names. A name that had remained in the shadows, untouched, unseen. If they were behind Rico, it meant the Moretti name wasn't just facing a corrupt official.
They were facing a ghost.
Vincenzo exhaled slowly, his mind already calculating the next move.
"Total amount?" he asked.
Theo pressed a key. The number appeared in bold.
40 million euros.
A slow nod. Enough to fund a full-scale war.
Theo smirked. "And it's all about to disappear."
Vincenzo studied him. "You're confident?"
Theo leaned back, cracking his knuckles. "I'll be honest, this is the kind of job hackers dream of. I'm going to spoof the accounts—basically, I'll create synthetic transactions that make it look like the money is moving between accounts naturally. By the time the funds actually get extracted, they'll believe it was an internal error, a flaw in their own automated systems. I'll inject false audit trails so that when they investigate, they'll chase ghosts."
Marco frowned. "What about countermeasures? Banks use AI-driven fraud detection now. You trip an algorithm, and they'll freeze the accounts."
Theo grinned. "That's where my Russian contacts come in. They specialize in velocity attacks—we'll flood the network with thousands of microtransactions across hundreds of accounts. It'll look like regular trading activity. By the time they detect the irregularity, the money will be long gone, sitting in cold storage wallets we control."
Vincenzo finally nodded. "You leave for Serbia tomorrow."
As they were finalizing the details, Vincenzo's phone vibrated.
An unknown number. Untraceable.
His instincts flared, but he answered.
"Vincenzo."
Alessia's voice.
"We need to meet. The club. Tonight."
His grip tightened on the phone. "What's wrong?"
"Just come." A pause. "You have to see this for yourself."
The line went dead.
Marco's expression darkened. "If her cover's blown, this could be a trap."
Vincenzo didn't respond immediately. His mind was already processing the possibilities, weighing the risks.
Marco pushed off the doorframe. "At least take security measures. Bulletproof car. Armed backup nearby."
Vincenzo nodded. "Only outside. If this is a setup, I want them to think I came alone."
---
The club pulsed with energy—bass vibrating through the walls, neon lights reflecting off polished surfaces. The scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and whiskey mixed in the air.
Vincenzo entered alone, dressed in a tailored black suit, his movements purposeful but unhurried. Marco had insisted on backup waiting outside, but inside, he was on his own. He never carried weapons into meetings like these. If things turned violent, he preferred to handle it with his hands.
He moved through the VIP section, past private booths where politicians and criminals whispered over champagne. Alessia was at the bar, her back straight, her posture tense. But she wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at the man seated across from her.
Older. Mid-fifties. Sharp three-piece suit. Silver hair, neatly combed back. He didn't just exude confidence—he radiated power. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to command a room.
Vincenzo's eyes flicked to Alessia, searching for a sign—fear, hesitation, a hidden warning. But her expression was unreadable.
"Meet my teacher," she said softly.
Vincenzo's jaw tightened slightly.
The man lifted his glass, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "Vincenzo Moretti," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "We finally meet."
Vincenzo sat down, his posture relaxed but his mind calculating a hundred different outcomes.
"Seems like you already know me," he said, his tone even.
The man chuckled. "Of course. One does not rise in this world without making ripples. And you… You've been making waves."
Vincenzo's expression didn't change, but inside, his instincts sharpened.
"And you are?"
The man leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
"I know about Theo's little trip to Serbia."
Vincenzo's fingers barely twitched.
The man smiled. "Relax, Vincenzo. I have no intention of stopping you. In fact, I'm rather curious to see if Theo succeeds."
A pause.
"Because if he does… then perhaps we should talk about the future."
Vincenzo had walked into this meeting expecting a trap. Instead, he had stumbled into something far more dangerous.
A game.
And this man?
He wasn't just playing it.
He was one of the architects.