I arrived early, my single piece of luggage rolling behind me, the dissolution papers folded precisely in my coat pocket. The café was one of those places that existed in the liminal space between the Family's legitimate fronts and their darker dealings—expensive espresso, hand-carved wooden chairs, and windows that faced the street so the soldiers upstairs could watch who came and went.
I chose a corner table. Ordered nothing. Waited.
One o'clock became one-thirty.
One-thirty stretched into two.
He had summoned me.
And yet he was the one who did not appear.
I sent several messages. Each one disappeared into the void, swallowed by whatever silence he deemed more important than our final meeting.
Finally, two words materialized on my screen.
Busy.
Then my phone rang—an unknown number with a Riverdale prefix.
"Signorina Mancini?"
The voice was familiar. Efficient. Loyal to a fault.
"This is Marco Ferrante. The Young Don asked me to inform you that an urgent matter arose. He cannot get away to meet you."
I said nothing.
This was hardly unexpected. Three years of marriage had taught me exactly where I ranked in Nico Volpe's hierarchy of priorities.