The sky outside was dull and gray.
Lorenzo sat in his study, smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers.
The large window behind him showed the quiet city below.
He had not slept since the confrontation with Lucian.
The meeting that was meant to be talk had turned into blood and bullets.
And he still had no idea who fired first.
His jaw tightened.
He looked at the clock on the wall.
It ticked slow, each second pressing on his mind.
He leaned back in his chair and said, “Bring them in.”
The door opened.
Five men entered the room — Matteo, Franco, Nico, Enzo, and Silvio.
Each stood firm, hands behind their backs, waiting for him to speak.
They were his best men, the ones who had seen too much and spoken too little.
Lorenzo flicked ash into the tray and said, “Sit.”
They
