Sunday came dressed in stillness. The garden grounds behind the hotel were quiet, save for the rustle of olive trees and the low murmur of men who didn’t waste words.
Gio was already pacing the perimeter, his sharp eyes scanning every hedge, every shadow. Papa sat beneath the pergola, a map of the grounds spread across the table like a battlefield. Sal stood nearby, arms crossed, gaze steady—his silence louder than most men’s shouting.
I joined them, boots crunching over gravel, the weight of the day settling across my shoulders like armor. The wedding was hours away. The performance would begin. And beneath the lace and champagne, we were threading a needle through danger.
“We’ll run the protocol again,” Gio said, tapping the map. “Three entrances. Two exits. Security rotates every fif
