The restaurant is closed to the public, its windows covered with heavy curtains that block out the afternoon sun.
I sit at a corner table in the back, my hands folded on the white tablecloth, waiting. Sophia wanted to come with me, but I refused.
This meeting is too dangerous, too unpredictable. She’s home with Tony and enough guards to repel a small army.
The warehouse bombing two days ago destroyed millions in legitimate inventory and killed three workers who had nothing to do with our world.
Clean men with families.
The message was clear: the Sicilians don’t care about collateral damage.
The front door opens, and I tense despite myself.
Five men enter, all wearing expensive suits that can’t quite hide the weapons beneath.
They move with the confidence of soldiers who’ve seen real combat, not just street fights.
These aren’t the usual thugs I deal with in the Bratva world.
The man in the center is older, maybe late sixties, with silver hair slicked back and piercing gray eyes that miss nothing.
Salvatore Torrino.
I’ve seen his photo in the files Tony compiled, but pictures don’t capture the aura of power that surrounds him like a cloak.
He walks to my table with measured steps, his men fanning out to cover the exits.
I remain seated, a calculated show of respect without submission. Standing would make me look eager. Staying seated shows I’m not intimidated.
“Mr. Artyomov.” His English is accented but perfect, each word precisely enunciated. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
“Don Torrino.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Please, sit.”
He does, and his men take positions around the room. I notice they’re all armed with more than just handguns.
One has a shotgun barely concealed under his long coat.
Another’s jacket bulges with what’s probably a submachine gun.
They came prepared for war.
A waiter appears from the kitchen, one of my men, dressed for the part. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”
“Espresso,” Torrino says. “Double.”
“The same,” I add, though my stomach is already churning with acid.
We sit in silence until the coffee arrives. Torrino takes a sip, his gray eyes never leaving my face.
He’s studying me, measuring me, trying to determine what kind of man I am.
“You have a beautiful city,” he says finally. “Very different from Palermo. More…modern.”
“It has its charms.” I match his casual tone, though we both know this isn’t a social call.
“I understand you recently married.” He sets down his cup with deliberate care. “A young woman. Sophia Moretti, yes?”
Ice floods my veins at the mention of her name. “My wife is not part of this discussion.”
