My stomach drops.For the donusually means something that moves in shadows. Something that doesn’t belong in a house where a three-year-old is deciding which car goes first.
“He’s not here,” I say carefully.
“I know,” the guard replies. “But it’s about the sit-down.”
The wordsit-downmakes my mouth go dry. It sounds too casual for what it is.
It sounds like two men having coffee.
It isn’t.
“Where?”
He glances down the hall, then back at me. Like he’s checking if I have permission to know. I feel something sharp rise behind my ribs. I’m tired of being treated like a guest in the middle of my own life.
“I’m his partner,” I say. “Show me.”
His brows twitch in a flicker of surprise. Then he nods once, as if he’s been waiting for someone to claim that word out loud.
“Yes,signora,” he says, and turns.
I follow him down the corridor, leaving Nico with the guard in the room. Nico doesn’t look up. He trusts the men here now. Or he trusts me to choose who’s safe.
That trust feels like a weight. And a weapon.
The guard leads me to a smaller office tucked behind the security center. Not the main command room, but adjacent. Like a place designed for logistics without the noise of war.
A table. A laptop open. Printed pages with diagrams. A folder labeled in neat block letters.
ROSSI SIT-DOWN — FUNERAL HOME — 16:30
I stare at it. Funeral home. Of course. Of course they chose death as their neutral ground.
“Can you step out?” I ask the guard.
He hesitates. I look at him. He steps out. The door closes softly behind him. I exhale once, slow, and pick up the papers. The first sheet is a layout. Floor plan. Entrances marked. Exits highlighted. Seating arrangement sketched with little squares and arrows.
My event planner brain clicks on like a switch. Not the part of me that worries. The part of me that notices. I don’t see “a meeting.” I see movement. I see flow. I see what happens when bodies enter a space and where they naturally funnel. I see the places people think they’re safe because there are doors, without realizing doors are just holes someone can block.
The funeral home has two main exits from the meeting room. Two. Both narrow. Both leading into a corridor that tightens like a throat before it opens into the lobby. Choke points.
My pulse sharpens. I flip the page. Staffing list. It’s labeledSupport Personnel.Catering. Flowers. Security.
Wait… catering? For a sit-down? I blink once. No one brings catering to a sit-down unless they’re putting on a show.
Or hiding something in trays.
The list of flowers is absurd. Extra arrangements. Tall ones. Thick greenery. Large vases placed near the corners of the room. Decorative. Also perfect for concealing weapons, cameras, men.
My fingers go cold. I move to the timeline.
16:30 — Arrival (Rossi)
16:35 — Arrival (Mancini)
16:40 — Seating / Opening remarks
16:55 — “Toast” / refreshments served
