The Palazzo Rosa sat like a jewel in the heart of Little Italy, its warm golden lights spilling onto the cobblestone streets. Through the tall windows, I could see well-dressed patrons enjoying their late dinner, wine glasses gleaming, laughter mixing with the gentle sounds of a piano.
It looked so normal. So innocent.
I checked my watch. Eleven fifty-five.
The gun felt heavy in my jacket as I approached the front entrance. The Maître d', a thin man with silver hair, greeted me with a practiced smile.
"Good evening, Miss. Do you have a reservation?"
"I am meeting someone," I said simply. "The name is Romano."
His smile faltered slightly. "Ah, yes. Right this way, please."
He led me through the main dining room, past tables of couples sharing intimate meals and business associates di
