Cesare called at 1:17 a.m.
He didn’t use the relay; he used the little black phone from the church, as if invoking etiquette could reverse gravity.
“Routes reopen by dawn,” he said without preamble, voice silk over wire. “My men stand down at the ports. I expect an equal courtesy.”
“You’ll have your folder,” Emilia said, “after my drivers text me photographs of gates open and cranes moving.”
“Done,” he said, and in the background something clinked- ice in a glass, a bit of theater for a woman he assumed admired dialogue.
“Goodnight, Cesare,” she said, and hung up.
Five minutes later Nora’s voice cut in. “Crane one moving. Two and three, green. Port control just logged a priority override from Valette Holding counsel. You made him spend a favor.”
“Log the timestamp,” Emilia said. “Fr
