Raffaele’s POV The Ricchezza headquarters loomed like a fortress in the dead of night, its steel, concrete, and glass facade cutting into the Baghdad skyline. A towering spire etched with our name, a silent declaration of dominance against our competitors. Inside, on the middle floor, the city lights glinted off the bulletproof windows, casting long shadows across the sleek conference room. The air was cool, sterile and buzzing with the low whir of servers in the adjacent intel hub. I paced the polished marble floor. “How’s it going, Matteo?” I asked, my voice steady but edged with impatience. I leaned against the massive oak table, arms crossed, my black suit still crisp despite the late hour. Matteo rubbed his temples, his sharp black suit mirroring mine—professional and unflinching. He sat at the terminal, screens flickering with encrypted data streams. “Slow, boss,” he admitted, “but we’re making progress. I am decrypting the delivery guys phone right now, the one wh
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