"Fortunately, you arrived when you did." The doctor pulled his surgical mask down to his chin, his face grave. "Another twenty minutes and I would not have been able to save her."
I thanked him until my voice broke. Then I stationed myself at Nonna's bedside, her hand in mine, her pulse a thin thread beneath my fingers. While she slept, I pulled up the security feeds on the hospital's network terminal. I knew what I would find, and I found it.
Rosalia Ferraro. Clear as a confession on the surveillance footage. She had been the one to plant the photographs, to swap them into the display where everyone would see. Every single image was fabricated. Doctored intelligence, composited with surgical precision, designed to destroy what little remained of the Genovese name.
I saved the footage. I reached for the phone to contact the authorities.
Two hands stopped me.
Giancarlo's grip closed around my wrist from the left. Salvatore stepped in front of me from the right. Their faces wore the same expression: cold, dismissive, final.