Just observation. Just calculation.
At the end of the wide corridor, a pair of tall double doors stood open like a waiting mouth.
Renzo pushed one side fully open and we stepped inside together, our boots echoing in the sudden hush.
Inside the room, a long ebony table dominated the space.
Polished. Expensive.
Intentionally set to command authority.
On the far side sat the Sicilians.
Two figures.
Waiting.
Their side of the table was already occupied.
Ours had been left empty.
Intentional.
Behind them stood twelve men in charcoal suits, spaced evenly like statues.
Comms wires ran from their ears, and their hands rested near their weapons.
The air in the room shifted the moment we stepped in.
Tension thickened.
Renzo stepped in first, pulling out the chair directly across from the woman.
Then he turned slightly—waiting.
He didn’t sit until I did.
A small gesture. But deliberate.
I took the seat.
Only then did he sit beside me, angling his body so he faced the man across from us.
The Sicilian man was mid-forties.
Lean. Sharp.
Silver threaded through his dark hair in a way that looked intentional rather than aged.
His suit—charcoal, tailored—probably cost more than most people in the room combined.
Beside him sat the woman.
Late thirties.
Severe.
Her black hair was pulled into a tight chignon, every strand controlled.
