Still, I adjust my hold on the briefcase, trying to look like this is normal. Like I do this every day.
The place isn’t hard to find. Old-school Italian. The green awning has lost most of its color; the neon sign hums faintly above it. The windows are dark, reflective, impossible to see through.
I step inside.
Red checkered tablecloths. Candles melted into old wine bottles. Sinatra playing somewhere overhead.
A hostess starts toward me, but I spot him before she can say anything.
Back corner. Silver hair. Two men at his sides—not obviously armed, but not subtle either. He eats at an unhurried pace, cutting into his food like time doesn’t apply to him.
I head straight for the table. The bodyguards notice me immediately, tracking the movement, but neither of them moves to stop me.
“I’m here from D’Amico & Associates?—”
“I know who you’re from.”
He doesn’t look up. Just gestures to the chair across from him with his fork.
“Sit. Have coffee.”
“I should get back?—”
“Sit.”
That settles it.
I sit.
The briefcase goes under the table, tucked close to my feet. He’s still focused on his plate, cutting another piece with the same deliberate care.
So this is Vincenzo Conti.
I expected something… bigger. More obvious. Security everywhere. A presence you could feel before you saw it.
Instead, he looks like someone who could disappear into a crowd without anyone noticing. Well-dressed, unremarkable—if you ignore the two men flanking him and the fact that everyone in the room is pretending not to look at him.
He glances up, catching me mid-assessment.
“Expecting something else?”
“No, sir.”
“Something grander, maybe.” He waves his fork lightly. “More guns. A little ceremony. Some idiot kissing my ring.” There’s a faint smile.
“That’s movie bullshit. Real power doesn’t need props.” He shrugs. “I’m just an old man who likes quiet lunches.”
He sets his utensils aside and looks at me properly now.
Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Hard to place exactly. His features carry a worn quality—experience, more than age—but his eyes are sharp. Clear. Just a little amused.
Like he’s already made up his mind about me.
“So,” he says. “You’re Raffaele’s new girl.”
“Assistant. I’m his assistant.”
“Mmm.”
