Percentages. Timelines.
Threats were layered under diplomacy.
Warnings disguised as suggestions.
I listened.
Quietly. Carefully.
My phone buzzed again.
Another call.
I didn’t even look at it this time. Just silenced it.
And kept listening.
Then—
Renzo’s phone rang.
The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
Everyone noticed.
No one reacted.
But the shift was immediate.
Renzo reached into his pocket slowly.
Pulled out his phone.
He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Not enough for most people to notice.
But I did.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, already turning slightly away from the table.
Renzo lifted the phone to his ear.
“Yeah.”
The word was flat.
A pause followed—brief, but heavy.
I didn’t need to hear the voice on the other end to know who it was.
Vincenzo.
Even through the distance, even through the low hum of the room, I could almost feel his anger crackling through the line like live wire.
Renzo didn’t react.
Not outwardly.
