Main entrance behind me. Service entrance through the kitchen. Emergency exit at the far side, partially disguised by the decor but still obvious if you know what to look for. Sight lines from the dining room to each.
Mirrors placed for atmosphere, but useful if you’re paying attention. Corners that could conceal a man for a second or two,though not for long. Table spacing better than average. Enough room to move if somebody had to.
Caterina sits at a table toward the middle-back of the room, not tucked in a corner, not centered like bait, but placed where she can see a decent amount of the dining room and still have some privacy. I’d like the table better if the room were empty of children.
It is not.
She sits with two women I recognize immediately from the files I looked over last night.
Olivia is tall and willowy, even with the pregnancy softening her slightly, dark hair, blue eyes, the kind of beauty that looks effortless until you look twice and realize every detail is exact. She’s dressed well, but not in a way that screams for notice. Wedding ring. Hand resting absently near her glass while she talks to Caterina. Her other hand occasionally reaching to steady the little girl making determined, uneven progress across the stretch of empty floor beside the table.
That has to be Isabella.
A little older than one, if I remember correctly. Dark hair in soft wisps, tiny dress, serious expression that doesn’t match the unstable toddler gait. She toddles three steps, squats abruptly for no reason I can identify, then pushes back up again.
Then there’s Bianca.
Tall too, dark hair, green eyes, the kind of face men write songs about. Less polished than Olivia in this setting, but not because she’s sloppy. Because she belongs here in a different way. Restaurant owner. Head chef. There’s a practical edge to her clothes even in a place this nice. She’s got one eye on the conversation and the other on the children, splitting her attention with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
Her son is at the edge of the table, not seated so much as orbiting.
Stephano, nearly three. Dark-haired, energetic, already moving with the heedless certainty toddlers have when they’re not concerned about how hard the floor is.
His little sister is on a blanket not far from Bianca’s chair, crawling with determined enthusiasm toward a slice of bread she must’ve abandoned at some point. Victoria is around the same age as Isabella, but not quite walking yet.
Children change a room.
Every adult here knows that. I can see it in the way chairs have been shifted, bags placed, bodies angled. They aren’t relaxed. Not really. They’re pretending at a family lunch in an empty restaurant between service hours because children need feeding and mothers need a chance to sit down and talk, and because life apparently continues even when somebody is threatening the people at the top of the family tree.
The women manage that balance better.
The men don’t even try.
Roberto is seated near Olivia, one chair slightly back from the table, suit jacket on, tie loosened by half an inch, dark eyes taking in the room with enough precision that I know immediately Vito was right about him.
There is nothing soft or out-of-practice about him.
He looks like an attorney, sure. Tailored suit. Clean cut. Expensive watch. The kind of man who could walk into a courtroom and command it with ease.
But the suit doesn’t hide the man inside it.
You can tell with some men.
It’s in the shoulders first. Not size. Readiness. The way he sits without ever quite settling. The way his eyes move without appearing to. The way one hand rests close to his thigh, not tense, just near enough to a weapon if something went wrong. His face is calm, even handsome in a refined way, but there’s a coldness under it. Vito’s word from last night comes back to me.
Scalpel.
Yeah.
That tracks.
Giovanni is worse.
Or better, depending on what side of the problem you’re on.
He’s not wearing a suit. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled, broad shoulders. He is not flashy. He doesn’t have to be. The type of man who could fade into a dark corner if needed—prefers it, actually—but can also put a whole room on alert with no added effort.
He sits near Bianca’s side of the table with the stillness of a man nobody around him would ever think to test. I would know who he was even if I hadn't read it. This is the brother who held the line when Luca went away. The one who stepped into the don’s place and kept everything standing.
