Renzo POV
Draghi's office smelled like burnt coffee and old carpet. It had smelled the exact same way every Tuesday for the last four months. He didn't look up from the folder when I walked in.
"Sit," he said.
I sat down in the squeaky chair across from him.
"You went to Cracco last night," he said, still not looking up from his paperwork. "A window table. Very visible. Very public."
"It's a restaurant, Sandro. People eat at restaurants."
"People eat at restaurants." He finally raised his eyes. They were incredibly tired, the kind of tired that came from doing this job fifteen years too long. "Undercover officers embedding with a money laundering target do not take her to the most photographed restaurant in Milan. They do not let half the financial press see them holding hands over c
