It carried. Through the front office, past the half-open doors where Bellomo associates nursed their morning espressos, into the back rooms where soldiers and runners kept their heads down and their ears open. Within seconds, the social club began to stir. Doors opened. Chairs scraped. People rushed in from every direction, drawn by the commotion.
But Adriana wasn't done.
Not even close.
She picked up her coffee, her hand trembling just enough to make it look real, and splashed it across her own chest.
The dark liquid spread quickly across the fabric, staining it unevenly.
Then, just like the night before, she lifted her hand to her neck and began scratching. Hard.
Red marks bloomed instantly across her skin, raw and irritated, as if someone had grabbed her violently.
I stood there, watching.
Something inside me finally snapped.
Enough.
Before I could think it through, before I could stop myself, I stepped forward and slapped her.
Hard.
The sound rang out, sharp and clear.
Everything went silent. The kind of silence that only falls in a place run by men who understand violence. The kind where nobody breathes until they know whose side to take.
And that was the exact moment Salvatore walked in.