17:10 — Discussion begins
The time is late afternoon. Low sun. Glare through windows. Visibility problems if anyone’s positioned outside. Shadows long enough to hide movement.
I stare at the paper, and my brain does something it’s done a hundred times in ballrooms and vineyards and hotel conference rooms. It runs the event like a film. Guests arrive. They enter. They funnel. They pause where the space makes them pause. They follow the path the setup encourages them to follow.
And if that path leads through a narrow corridor with two exits that can be blocked…
My throat tightens. I can almost see it. Not with imagination. With pattern recognition. A “toast” moment. People stand. Glasses lift. Attention shifts. That’s when you move pieces. That’s when you kill someone who’s watching faces instead of hands.
This isn’t a sit-down.
This is a hit with a dress code.
I drop the papers on the table like they’re burning. My hands shake. Not from fear. From certainty.
I reach for my phone. Not the burner this time. The secure one they gave me after the threat text. The one linked to the estate system. The one that can reach Turo directly.
My thumb hovers for half a second. I don’t wait for permission. I hit call. It rings once. Twice.
On the third ring, he answers.
“Lucia.”
His voice is calm. Too calm. It makes my blood chill because calm in his world usually means violence is already loaded and waiting.
“Don’t go in,” I say immediately.
Silence. Not shocked. Not confused. Focused.
“What are you seeing?” He trusts the part of me that reads danger even when I’m shaking.
I swallow hard. “The layout,” I say quickly. “It funnels. Two exits from the room, both narrow, both leading into a choke corridor. They can block you in. They can turn it into a kill box.”
His breath changes. Subtle. A quick inhale.
I push on. “There’s catering listed,” I continue. “For a sit down. That’s not normal. It’s an excuse to move people through the room with trays. Conceal weapons. Distract.”
Silence again. I can hear the faintest shift of sound on his end, like he’s moving, turning, gesturing. I keep going, because stopping feels like dying.
“Flowers,” I say, voice tightening. “Too many. Tall arrangements. Corners. Visual cover. Places to hide guns or men. And the timing, late afternoon. Low sun. Glare. Shadows. They picked it on purpose.”
His voice comes again, lower now. “Go on.” The word is both an invitation and a command.
I close my eyes for a second and let my brain run the film again. “They planned a ‘toast’ at 16:55,” I say. “Refreshments served. That’s when attention shifts. That’s when they move.” My hand clamps around the phone. “This isn’t peace,” I whisper. “This is an ambush disguised as an event.”
There’s a pause. Then I hear him speak. Not to me, but to someone near him.
“Matteo,” he says, clipped. “Get me the staffing list. Now.”
Another voice answers, muffled, “Yes, Don.”
Then Turo’s voice returns to my ear, controlled and deadly. “Hold on.”
I stand there in the quiet office, heart hammering so hard it hurts. I can hear my own blood. I can hear my breath. On his end, there’s movement. Low voices. Orders. Then his voice snaps, loud enough I catch it through the phone like a knife.
“Change of plan,” he says. “Assume hostile.”
My knees go weak with relief and terror at once. He’s already doing it. He’s already trusting me.
