Bellini was not a company. It was a law firm. More precisely, it had been a law firm. Bellini & Riva closed in 2003 after its founding partners retired, but the archived registry showed a long history of private-client work between Milan, Valletta and Lagos. Amara found one surviving partner living outside Florence. He was eighty-two.
His assistant replied to her email within an hour.
Yes, Signor Bellini remembers Matteo Greco.
No, he will not discuss privileged client matters without authorization from the Greco estate.
Amara stared at the last sentence. The Greco estate meant Dante.
Possibly Chiara.
The investigation had reached a locked door with living people behind it. Kolade read the email over her shoulder.
“So we ask Dante.”
“We don’t know how to reach him directly.”
“We have lawyers.”
“That will announce exactly what we found.”
“Isn’t that inevitable?”
“Eventually.”
Amara preferred eventually when it belonged to her. She spent the afternoon following the account references instead. Matteo’s 1994 Malta instruction led to a trust established three weeks before his death. The trust had changed custodians twice, jurisdictions once and names three times. It was still active. The current beneficiary information was sealed.
But the trust owned a controlling interest in Greco Maritime Investments. Amara sat back. Matteo had not simply hidden copies. He had built a structure around them. A structure still receiving money from Adeyemi Group more than three decades later.
“Why would your father pay a trust Matteo created before he died?” she asked.
Kolade’s face tightened. “Settlement.”
“The missing agreements.”
“Yes.”
“Then your father has known the Greco claim survived for years.”
Kolade looked at the city beyond the glass. “And chose not to tell me.”
Amara was beginning to understand that this investigation contained two betrayals running beside each other. Matteo’s by Ade. Kolade’s by the father who had let him inherit consequences without information. Her phone rang from an unfamiliar Italian number.
She answered.
“Ms. Okonkwo?”
The voice was male, older, accented.
“Yes.”
“My name is Paolo Bellini.”
Amara straightened.
Kolade looked at her.
“I received your inquiry about Matteo Greco,” Bellini continued. “I cannot give you documents. Not without authorization.”
“I understand.”
“But there is something you should know before you continue asking questions through official channels.”
Amara reached for her notebook.
“Matteo expected to die.”
The room went very still.
“He gave my firm copies of several documents and instructions for his wife. After his death, Chiara received them.”
“Did the copies include the seventh letter?”
A pause.
“You know about the seventh letter.”
“Only fragments.”
Bellini exhaled.
“The full letter belongs to Chiara.”
“Where is she?”
Another pause.
“Closer than you think.”
The call ended before Amara could ask what that meant. Ten minutes later, a message appeared on her phone from an unknown Nigerian number.
EKO HOTEL. ROOM 714. TOMORROW, 4 P.M.
No name.
Amara did not need one.