The office smells like espresso and tension.
Gio’s pacing, flipping through his phone like it owes him answers. Papa sits behind the desk, calm as ever, fingers steepled, eyes sharp. The speakerphone crackles, and Sal’s voice fills the room—gravel and steel, the sound of a man who’s buried enemies and raised daughters.
“We’ll land in Florence on Saturday, I know the wedding is a week from then” Sal says. “I want time to walk the perimeter, meet your security, and look every man in the eye.”
Papa nods, even though Sal can’t see it. “You’ll have full access. Gio will coordinate with the hotel staff. Nothing moves without your say.”
I lean against the window, watching the city breathe below. Florence is beautiful, but beauty doesn’t mean safe. Not for GreenLee. Not for the people who love
