~NICO~
The bar smells exactly as it did the night I first walked in alone after my father’s death—cigars, expensive liquor, and men pretending decadence is the same thing as power.
Nine of them sit around the long table. Rome’s pillars. Or so they call themselves. They have women draped across their laps, whispering into their ears as though influence can be earned with perfume.
I take my seat at the head of the table and let my gaze travel.
“Gentlemen,” I say evenly, letting my gaze sweep the room. “This is not a brothel.”
The music outside the boardroom cuts almost instantly.
I look at each of them in turn.
Matteo Romano avoids my eyes first. Carlo Ventresca still has his drink in hand. Dario Bellini looks annoyed. Sergio Valenti leans back like this amuses him. Pietro Morelli lo
