ɪᴛᴀʟɪᴀɴ ꜱɪʀᴇɴ

secondo capitolo

Somewhere in Little Italy, London. Morning sunlight slanted through the tall windows of San Mario's, catching the golden chandeliers and casting a warm glow across the polished wood floors. The restaurant was already alive with movement. Waitresses in crisp aprons moved swiftly between tables, whispering in soft Italian as they polished silver and stacked plates with careful precision. The air carried the scent of freshly baked bread, simmering tomato sauce, crushed garlic, and the faint trace of wine from bottles opened not long before. From the kitchen came the sharp rhythm of knives against chopping boards, the clang of pans, and the low murmur of chefs calling instructions over rising steam. Sleeves were rolled, tempers focused, and everything moved with the efficiency of a machine that never truly stopped.

Liliana moved through it all without hesitation. Heads turned as she passed, though no one dared block her path. Her heels tapped lightly against the floor, each step measured and deliberate, her gaze sweeping the room with quiet awareness. She knew every corridor, every concealed door that led to the private offices and back rooms hidden from the public eye the true arteries of Sabini's empire, where decisions were made long before they ever reached the dining floor.

Mario stepped out from the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder, dark hair streaked with grey and sleeves rolled above broad, as the wiped his face. At fifty, he carried himself like a man who had built something with his hands and protected it with his fists. There was kindness in him for those he trusted, and something far less forgiving for those he did not.

"Buongiorno, bambina." he said, opening his arms as he approached her.

"Morning, Mario." Liliana replied, her voice calm and smooth as ever. "How did you sleep?"

He let out a low breath and shook his head, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sleep?" He asked confused as if he didn't know what that word meant. "Sabini dragged me out of bed last night like a possessed man" he muttered. "A maniac on whiskey and opium."

Liliana raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

Mario twisted his face as he spoke, a grimace pulling at his features. "You know that vein on his neck?" He tapped it lightly with a finger. "The one that looks like it's about to pop when he screams."

He shook his head again, half amused, half exasperated. "It was doing that all night."

Liliana's lips curved faintly. "Stress will kill that man before the streets do."

They walked side by side down the long corridor, their footsteps muted against the polished floor. The walls were lined with framed sketches of vineyards, still lifes, and old photographs of Sabini's family — carefully curated history, softened and respectable. The scent of espresso mingled with polished wood, lingering in the air like something permanent.

"You know," she said lightly, "I almost envy the ones who sleep through it all. Must be nice to pretend the world isn't going to hell every Monday morning"
Mario gave a soft laugh but said nothing. Her words hung in the air.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door waited. Mario opened it with a flourish, stepping aside for her.

Inside, a large wooden table dominated the room. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, cutting sharp rectangles of light across the polished surface. The air felt heavier in here, quieter, as though even the walls were listening.

Two of Sabini's men were already seated, jackets still on, faces drawn tight with anticipation. Carlotta's leg bounced relentlessly beneath the table, her cigarette trembling between impatient fingers as ash gathered at the tip. Giuliana leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingertips to her temples as though warding off a headache brought on by nerves or by Carlotta's relentless agitation. When she saw Liliana and Mario enter, she straightened at once. Without a word, she reached for the decanter and poured two glasses of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the sunlight as she slid them across the table, steady hands betraying none of the tension in the room.