Page 112 of Forged

The room grows noticeably quieter.

Enzo’s expression tightens. “So, the restricted section stayed blank?”

“Correct. That part of the estate has never been digitized.”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“The layout for the IT wing only exists on paper in the family vault.” I say.

Dante studies the screen again.

Enzo nods. “So, whoever accessed the files didn’t see anything important? That wing contains all of our records. The security of those servers needs focus. I’ll work on that. Just to be sure, Blackwater’s location is still concealed?”

“Correct.”

Enzo watches the display for another moment before the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Good.” He looks back to Rowan. “Move the archive and update the encryption.”

Rowan nods. “Already done. I tightened access permissions and added live monitoring to the archive logs. If anyone touches those files again, we’ll know immediately.”

The screen dims as he closes the log display. For now, it looks like a minor incident. But the way Dante continues watching the dark monitor tells me he’s not entirely convinced.

Neither am I.

The attendantat the front desk gives a polite nod as I cross the marble floor of my building and head toward the elevators. The mirrored walls reflect a familiar version of myself back at me—pressed shirt, composed expression, the controlled exterior I’ve worn through boardrooms, private negotiations, and more questionable business arrangements than anyone would ever guess. It’s a useful mask. One that has served me well for a long time.

Still, something about it feels slightly less convincing this morning.

I’ve spent years moving through other people’s lives with the understanding that I was only passing through. Temporary cities, temporary jobs and temporary relationships. It has always been easier that way. Clean exits and no loose ends.

Last night might have changed all of that.

I unlock my apartment door and step inside, dropping my keys on the console near the entrance before shrugging out of my jacket. I walk to my office, sit down, and open my laptop. I run through the familiar sequence of encrypted logins and the multi-factor authentication windows.

Snake Charmer:Incoming file.

I exhale slowly.

The attachment downloads quickly. I open the file and begin scrolling through the documents. The first few pages contain financial intelligence tied to Anthony Falco’s organization. Listed are shell companies, shipping routes, offshore accounts shifting money through Caribbean banks.

Then another document loads.

This one is labeledEstate Infrastructure Overview.

My attention sharpens.

Images fill the screen, clean digital diagrams mapping the internal network structure of the Marchetti estate. What she sent me a couple of days ago was the layout of the home, the brick and mortar bones, this time it’s the data center, the nervous system of their organization. Surveillance loops, residential automation systems, server clusters and network routing pathways—everything laid out in neat, color-coded layers of information.

Still, something about the design doesn’t sit right with me.

My eyes move slowly across the screen again, studying the segmentation of the estate’s internal systems. Each network is isolated from the others. Security is separated from residentialcontrols, financial data separated from surveillance storage. It’s a careful design, the kind that would prevent a single breach from compromising the entire structure.

But the map stops short of showing the full picture.

There’s a break in the diagram where another infrastructure layer should exist, switches with unused ports that lead nowhere in the diagram. Not an empty space exactly, more like a deliberate omission, a section of the architecture removed cleanly from the digital file.

Which means the real system isn’t here. Another goddamn dead end.

A message notification appears in the corner of the screen.