Nobody watched Felix Amato.
That was the thing about him. He had understood from a young age that invisibility was its own kind of power — that the man nobody watched was the man who could move freely through every room, every conversation, every situation that mattered.
He had cultivated it deliberately. The average face. The unremarkable build. The way of entering a room that did not change its energy. Twelve years inside Dante Ricci's clan and he was still the man people forgot was there.
Until now.
He sat in his car outside a café in the Navigli district and watched the door and waited for Elena.
Elena Russo. Twenty six years old. She taught primary school in the mornings and painted in the afternoons and laughed at things that were genuinely funny rather than things that were soc
