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“We found a trail. Lena had a financial pattern—quiet donations sent through a dummy trust, routed into a Catholic church here in Melbourne.”

“Donations?”

“Regular. Same day every month. Not to the church directly—but to their adoption center.”

I say nothing, but I can feel something curling in the pit of my stomach.

Bugatti pulls a folded printout from his coat pocket and hands it over. “I had our guy dig deeper. Medical records. She gave birth a week before she died. We don’t know much about the child, they made sure to keep it vague. Same day she signs off the papers—child is registered at the church’s center, then disappears into the system.”

I stare at the paper without reading it.

Lena. Vasco. Two of the six closest to Desmond. Loyal, deeply in love. They wanted a family—everyone knew that.

“They didn’t give her up,” I say quietly. “They hid the child.”

Bugatti’s brow creases. “You think they saw what was coming?”

I nod once. “They knew Desmond was planning something. They knew they wouldn’t survive it. So they made sure their child would.”

Bugatti hesitates, then adds, “I’m heading to the adoption center tomorrow. Ask a few questions. See who remembers what.”

I look at him. “I’ll go with you.”

He blinks. “Boss, you don’t have to—”

“I do.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, then something closer to worry. “Alright,” he says finally, nodding. “We leave early.”

I step back from the gate and watch him return to the driver’s side. He opens the door, pauses for a second, then climbs in and drives off without another word.

The gates shut behind him.

****

The house is still wrapped in quiet when I slip out of my room—quiet enough that I can hear the faint clink of the wind against the windowpanes and the ticking of the antique clock at the end of the hall.

I move lightly, coat draped over one arm, shoes in hand until I reach the landing. I skip the fourth step out of habit—it creaks too much. I don’t need my brothers asking where I’m going, especially not Enzo.

By the time I reach the side entrance, I have my coat on and my collar adjusted. The door shuts behind me with barely a click.

Bugatti is already waiting by the gate, leaning against the black SUV, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He straightens when he sees me, flicks the butt to the ground, and opens the door without a word.

I get in, and we pull off the estate before the house has even begun to stir.

We leave the polished streets of our district behind quickly—glass façades giving way to cracked sidewalks and peeling paint. Old Melbourne.

The church sits on a sloped corner—Santissima Trinità, modest but proud, with crumbling stone archways and a rusted bell that hasn’t rung in years. Ivy chokes the southern wall. Statues of saints line the walk, their marble faces worn smooth by time and weather.

We step out and immediately stand out like sin in a confessional. Black coats. Sharp shoes. The way we move—calculated, silent, clean in a place that carries dust under its fingernails.

Bugatti’s steps are slow as we approach the entrance. A young man in a grey cassock stands near the doorway, startled when we come into view.

“We’re here to speak to the one in charge,” Bugatti says flatly.

The boy’s eyes flick between us, then he nods stiffly. “I’ll ask Father Romani if he will see you.”

He leads us through the narrow halls—stone floors, wood-paneled walls, faint scent of old incense and oil.