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"They're not." The certainty in my voice comes from years of reading enemy intentions. "This is theater. Emilio wants us to know he can reach our operations, but he's not ready for open conflict. If he were, those cars would be bombs, not surveillance."

Bruno nods, but his hand remains close to the holster beneath his jacket. "What about our response? The men are asking if we should return the favor."

"No. Let him waste resources on pointless displays. We have more important business tonight."

The reminder of tonight's appointment sends anticipation coursing through my veins.

In a few hours, Rosaria Costa will stand in my hall, her voice filling the space I've prepared specifically for her.

The thought has consumed my attention for the past twenty-four hours, pushing business concerns into secondary importance.

Gianni and Bruno exchange glances, their expressions suggesting curiosity about tonight's mysterious event. Neither man asks questions—they understand that their employer's private affairs remain private unless he chooses to share details.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"The monthly reports from our Sicilian operations," Gianni offers, producing a leather folder from his briefcase. "Revenues are up twelve percent, but we're seeing increased competition from Eastern European smugglers."

"Handle it. Use whatever resources necessary to maintain our market position."

He nods and retreats, taking the folder with him. Bruno lingers for a moment, his eyes scanning the papers scattered across my desk.

"The Costa girl," he says finally. "Is this connected to the shipping negotiations?"

The question catches me off guard. I've been careful to keep tonight's arrangement separate from business concerns, but Bruno's survival instincts are finely tuned. He recognizes when personal interests intersect with professional obligations.

"Why do you ask?"

"Timing seems significant. We're pressuring Emilio over territory, and suddenly, his niece is visiting our estate. Could be seen as escalation."

"It's not."

"But others might interpret it differently. If word gets back to Emilio that we're involving family members..."

"No one is being involved. Tonight is a private cultural event. Nothing more."

Bruno's expression suggests he finds this explanation unconvincing, but he has the wisdom not to press further. "Security recommendations?"

"Minimal presence. Station two men at the gate, two more in the courtyard. Everyone else maintains normal positioning. I don't want this evening to feel like a military operation."

"Understood, Signore ."

He departs, leaving me alone with afternoon sunlight streaming through the study windows. The estate grounds are peaceful, with gardeners tending to flower beds and maintenance staff preparing for evening's activities. Everything appears normal, domestic, unthreatening.

The perfect stage for what promises to be an unforgettable performance.

I return to my desk, attempting to focus on shipping manifests and territory reports, but concentration proves impossible.

My mind keeps drifting to images of Rosaria Costa—the controlled grace with which she moved through last night's confrontation, the defiance that flickered in her dark eyes, the way her voice will sound in the intimate acoustics of my hall.

Hours pass in this distracted state. Staff members appear periodically with questions and updates, their voices seeming to come from a great distance. The sun tracks across the sky, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow through the study windows.

Finally, as evening approaches, I abandon any pretense of work. The papers remain scattered across my desk, unread and unimportant. Tonight requires my complete attention, undivided focus on the woman who will soon grace my home with her presence.

I shower and dress with particular care, selecting a charcoal suit that fits perfectly without appearing ostentatious. The goal is to present an image of refined power—wealthy enough to command respect, sophisticated enough to appreciate artistry, dangerous enough to ensure compliance.

The hall awaits in perfect readiness. Candles flicker in their holders, casting warm light across the polished surfaces.

The Steinway sits in its circle of illumination, its ebony surface reflecting the flames with mirror-perfect clarity.

The air carries the faint scents of expensive cologne and wood polish.

I position myself beside the piano, checking my watch as the final minutes tick away. Seven thirty. She should arrive precisely on time—punctuality is a survival trait in families where tardiness can be interpreted as disrespect.

The intercom's buzz cuts through the hall's silence with mechanical precision.

" Signore , the car is approaching the gate."

My pulse quickens, though I keep my expression carefully composed. "Very good."

"Should we escort the guest directly to the main hall?"

"Yes. No delays."

Minutes stretch with elastic tension as I wait for her arrival. Footsteps echo in the corridor beyond the hall's doors, approaching with the inevitability of destiny.

The intercom crackles again. " Signore , your guest has arrived."

Words that carry the promise of everything I've been anticipating. Tonight, Rosaria Costa will perform in the space I've created specifically for her voice. Tonight, the obsession that began in a theater box will find its first expression.

"Bring her in."