The rain over the Old Cemetery was not a gentle autumn drizzle; it was a cold, violent downpour that turned the ancient soil into a thick, grasping mire. In the center of the Rossi plot, a circle of heavy industrial lanterns cast a harsh, unnatural light against the weeping willow trees. The shadows they created were long and jagged, dancing like specters over the weathered marble headstones.
Dante Virelli walked into the light with a measured, rhythmic stride. He was drenched, his dark coat heavy with water, but his posture remained as straight as a structural beam. He stopped ten paces from the group, his eyes immediately falling on the two men standing over Luca’s grave. They held shovels, the blades caked with fresh, dark mud. A small mound of earth had already been piled to the side
