Donatello stood first, smoothing his jacket with deliberate precision.
“Extend our regards to Vincenzo Orsini,” he said, his voice calm but carrying weight. “Tell him the Sicilians remember old alliances.”
Renzo inclined his head once.
“Will do.”
Bianca followed, her expression unreadable, her red lips pressing into a thin, controlled line as she stepped back into her role—silent, observant, lethal in her own right.
Then their men moved.
Twelve shadows filing out in a tight formation, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor before disappearing into the corridor.
Gone.
Just like that.
I let out a slow breath as the doors closed behind them.
The tension in the room shifted.
“Still alive,” I murmured, pushing myself up from the chair. “Well. That went... smooth.”
Renzo didn’t look at me.
He checked his watch instead.
“The Sicilians and we share the same roots,” he said evenly.
“We’re not like the Spanish—constantly at war. We know how to conduct business, even in hostility, without turning it into bloodshed.”
A pause.
“Doesn’t mean we trust each other.”
His gaze lifted, sharp and cold.
“That’s why we bring armies to every handshake.”
That—was the truth of this world.
I didn’t argue.
Just turned and followed him as he headed for the exit.
The Third Battalion fell into formation again without a word, moving like a single organism as we retraced our steps through the corridor.
Back through the sculptures.
Back past the silent guards.
Back toward the glass doors that separated us from the night.
Only when we stepped outside—when the cool air hit my face and the tension in my chest loosened by a fraction—did I speak.
“Vincenzo called.”
Renzo didn’t slow. “What did he say?”
