His posture stayed relaxed, his shoulders loose, his expression unreadable as he listened.
“She came with me,” he said evenly. “Yes, sir.”
A beat.
“Yes... she insisted.”
Another pause.
His eyes flickered briefly toward me—quick, sharp, assessing—but he didn’t linger.
“No, the meeting’s civil so far.”
Another pause.
His jaw tightened again.
Then—
“Understood.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Hung up.
Just like that.
Renzo lowered the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, returning to the conversation as if nothing had happened.
The Sicilians didn’t comment.
The conversation continued, steady and deliberate, as if the interruption had never occurred.
Numbers were finalized.
Terms adjusted.
Compromises made where necessary, concessions calculated down to the last percentage point.
It didn’t take long after that.
Ten minutes.
Maybe less.
Everything was settled in the same quiet, dangerous language the entire meeting had been conducted in.
No raised voices.
No threats spoken aloud.
Just mutual understanding—backed by the unspoken agreement that if anything went wrong, everyone in this room would die trying to fix it.
Handshakes followed.
Firm. Brief.
