The "Open" sign did not swing today. Instead, Giulia propped the door of Caffè Aurora wide with a heavy piece of drift-pine, letting the morning salt air sweep out the lingering ghosts of drywall dust and cordite. The town was eerily quiet. There were no sirens, no helicopters, and no hum of black sedans. The silence of Porto Vento was the silence of a held breath.
Behind the bar, Giulia went through the motions with a clinical, almost holy precision. She ground the beans—the last of the high-end Arabica from the Romano private reserve. She tamped the grounds with the heavy brass tool Lucia had clutched in her final moments. When the machine hissed, the scent that filled the room wasn't just coffee; it was a return to the physical world.
Matteo sat at the corner table, watching her. He h
