Chapter 34
Turo
The funeral homesmells like lilies and bleach. Death dressed in perfume. Cleaned, sanitized, made polite enough that civilians can walk through and pretend grief is the only thing that happens in rooms like this.
My shoes click on the tile as I enter, and every sound feels too sharp. Too exposed. The kind of acoustics designed to make you whisper. Rossi chose it for that. They wanted the room to swallow screams.
I don’t look around like a tourist. I take inventory. Left wall: framed landscapes meant to soften the mind. Behind them, drywall. Easy to hide wiring, easy to hide microphones.
Ceiling: low. Lights recessed. Shadows pooled in corners.
Air vents: large enough for sound to travel, small enough to conceal a camera.
Exits: exactly where Lucia said. Two doors out of the meeting room. Both narrowing into a corridor that turns before it opens. Perfect for a choke point. Perfect for turning men into targets.
And then there’s the “staff.” Three men in black slacks and crisp white shirts, moving with forced casualness. One carries a tray. One adjusts a flower arrangement. One wipes a table that doesn’t need wiping.
They aren’t Rossi’s.
They’re mine. Matteo’s work. Lucia’s warning made it possible.
I don’t let my gaze linger on them. I don’t acknowledge them with a nod. They know the rules. If I recognize them, Rossi recognizes them. So I let my eyes slide over the room as if I’m checking the décor. As if this is, in fact, a peace meeting.
Across the space, the Rossi delegation waits. Too many men for diplomacy. Their underboss, Vittorio Rossi, stands near the far end of the long table, hands open, posture relaxed. He wears a suit like a man wears skin: comfortably, as if violence is just another organ. His smile is bright. It’s also empty.
Beside him: a consigliere with soft eyes and a thin mouth, and three “guards” whose jackets fit wrong over their shoulders because they’re hiding bulk. Weapons. I can smell it on them. Not gun oil. Confidence. The kind that makes men sloppy.
Vittorio spreads his arms. “Turo.”
I return his smile with one of my own. The kind that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Vittorio.”
We exchange the performance of respect. Handshake. A brief squeeze. Eye contact long enough to imply equality, not long enough to imply intimacy. My men spread into position behind me, exactly as planned. The Rossi men mirror them. It’s almost comical: two groups pretending they’re not measuring angles and distances like hunters.
The table is long. Heavy. Polished enough to reflect faces. A thing meant to look civilized.
A thing that can be flipped into a barricade in half a second.
Lucia’s voice is in my head as I move toward it.Choke points. Catering. Flowers. Toast.
I sit in the seat that gives me the widest line of sight. My back to a wall, not a door. My men take positions where they can see the exits without blocking them.
Vittorio sits opposite me. He’s too relaxed for a man genuinely seeking peace.
That’s the first confirmation.
The second is the flowers. Tall arrangements in thick vases. Greenery dense enough to hide hands. Placed near corners, exactly where they’d give cover for movement. Exactly where Lucia said.
My mouth goes dry. Not with fear. With clarity. Lucia was absolutely right. This was never peace. This was a kill box with tablecloths.
Vittorio begins the conversation. Territory. Boundaries. Mutual respect. The same words men have used for centuries to dress up greed.
I answer with the right responses. Calm. Measured. Professional. I let him think I’m in the rhythm. I let him feel control. Because if you want a man to expose himself, you don’t spook him early. You let him commit to the idea that he’s winning.
His consigliere slides a folder across the table. “Proposals,” he says.
I open it. Blank pages. Not literally, but effectively. Words that mean nothing. Concessions designed to corner me. Vittorio watches my face. His eyes flick not to my eyes, but to my hands. He’s waiting for tension. For tells.
