My breakfast is ready and waiting for me, just as he promised. Just as it has been every day this week.
But Massimo isn’t.
I glance around the kitchen and then focus on the setting. The dish is an omelet. Tomatoes. Mushrooms. Shredded cheese. Prosciutto layered over eggs. The plate has been left on the breakfast table, at the seat closest to the window where the bright morning sunrays spill inside. On the right, there’s a nicely folded cloth napkin, with cutlery on top. A glass of orange juice is positioned on the left. And completing the setting, in the middle of the table, a small vase with a single sprig of jasmine.
It’s all rather sweet, if one disregards the man with a semiautomatic rifle standing in the center of the room.
“Peppe? Is something wrong?”
“Nope. Just following Massi
