The morning light slanted through the tall, arched windows of Banca Nobile, gilding the marble floors in pale gold. The air smelled of polished wood, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of vaults buried deep beneath the building. A soft piano piece played from hidden speakers—Chopin, something melancholic but refined.
At the front desk, Signora Loxley adjusted her pearl necklace as she handed a receipt to a banker in a navy suit. “Thank you, Clive. My husband will be so pleased—the villa in Portofino is finally paid in full.”
Clive smiled, all teeth and practiced warmth. “Of course, signora. Your account has been impeccable. We’re honored to serve your family.”
She left, heels clicking against stone, clutching her leather portfolio like it held sacred texts.
Near the private
