The restaurant was small, tucked into a quiet corner of Trastevere with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles.
Tourists and locals mixed at the tables, creating the kind of ambient noise that made private conversations possible without feeling exposed.
Marco Vitali sat at a corner table, back to the wall, eyes tracking every person who entered.
He looked older than Matteo remembered—silver hair, deep lines around his mouth, hands that trembled slightly as they wrapped around a wine glass.
He looked like a man who knew he was dancing on a knife's edge.
Luciano moved through the restaurant with the confidence of someone who owned every room he entered.
Matteo followed, noting exits, marking security.....both his father's men stationed discreetly throughout the restaurant and the two guards Marco had brought, sitting at nearby tables.
Everyone was armed. Everyone was watching.
"Don Luciano." Marco stood as they approached, extending his hand.
