“How long?” I ask.
“Three weeks,” Marco replies.
“Why wasn’t it addressed sooner?”
Marco doesn’t hesitate. “They kept it small. Incremental losses. Designed not to trigger review.”
That’s competent. Which means it ends quickly.
“Remove one crew,” I say. “Absorb the other.”
“Which one?”
“The one that thinks it’s smarter.”
Marco nods once. He doesn’t need clarification. Absorption means loyalty enforced. Removal means a message sent. Both will be understood.
“Florida?” Salvatore asks.
Marco turns the page. “Quiet.”
Silence settles for a moment. Florida is never quiet. Quiet means someone has solved a problem without asking permission. Or created one without announcing it.
“Too quiet,” Giulio says.
“Yes,” I agree.
“Who’s running point there?”
“DeLuca,” Marco replies.
Giulio’s mouth curves faintly. “Then he’s lying.”
“Or succeeding,” Salvatore says mildly.
“Men like DeLuca don’t succeed quietly,” Giulio counters. “They conceal.”
He’s not wrong.
“Send someone,” I say. “Not to intervene. To observe.”
“Who?”
“Someone DeLuca doesn’t expect.”
Marco nods again. It will be handled.
The numbers continue for another fifteen minutes. Shipping lanes. Construction bids. Import channels. Adjustments presented as logistics but understood for what they are: territory secured, territory contested, territory reclaimed.
Then Giulio stops waiting. “The Irish matter remains unresolved.”
There it is. He doesn’t look at me immediately. Just lets the statement sit in the center of the table, giving it weight before attaching a target.
“The Irish matter is being managed,” I say.
“Managed?” Giulio repeats, as if the word itself is insufficient.
“Yes.”
