Sharp cheekbones. Blood-red lipstick.
She radiated quiet authority.
Danger without noise.
Renzo inclined his head.
“Donatello. Bianca.”
A pause.
“Pleasure, as always.”
Donatello returned the nod, his expression unreadable.
“Renzo.”
Then his gaze shifted to me.
“And...?”
I didn’t look away. “Elena.”
My voice was even. Unshaken. “Vincenzo’s wife.”
Bianca’s eyes sharpened—just slightly—before smoothing back into composure.
“We were not expecting company,” she said, her voice measured.
“Vincenzo insisted his wife be present,” Renzo said, unbothered. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
A lie.
But not one worth challenging.
The room settled into its rhythm.
No one spoke for a second longer than necessary.
The conversation began without preamble—because in rooms like this, politeness was just another form of weakness.
They were discussing the northern shipping routes.
Specifically—the new container terminal at Genoa.
A facility capable of moving three times the volume of narcotics without triggering customs detection systems.
The Sicilians wanted a larger cut.
More control.
More leverage over the flow.
Black Veilwanted exclusive rights to the encryption software that masked the cargo.
Ownership. Control. Power.
Numbers were thrown out.
