The hotel room in Milan was perfect.
I sat by the window, the city lights blurred by a steady, relentless drizzle.
My laptop was open, glowing with spreadsheets of shipments and laundered accounts, but my mind was three hundred miles south.
There was a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door.
I didn't ask that was; I reached for the Beretta on the nightstand.
"It’s Luca," a muffled voice said through the wood.
I lowered the weapon but didn't put it away.
"Enter."
The door opened, and one of my most trusted couriers stepped in, his coat slick with rain.
He didn't say a word. He simply reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, square envelope.
It was slightly crumpled at the edges, smelling faintly of the lavender sachets Amaya’s maids favored.
"The Little Bird was ear
