Friday morning arrived like it was execution day.
Inside the Council Chamber, the air was thick with the scent of aged leather, expensive espresso, and mounting tension. The massive oval table dominated the room, surrounded by the heads of the twelve ruling families.
Don Greco sat at the head of the table, looking entirely in his element.
Mara sat at the Ferrante seat, wearing a tailored black suit that felt more like armour than clothing.
Nico stood silently exactly one step behind her right shoulder. Across the room, nestled firmly among the traditionalists of the old guard, Bruno Ferrante sat with his hands resting casually on the silver head of his cane.
Donna Sylvia was absent, sending a quiet but undeniable message to anyone paying attention.
At exactly nine o'clock, Don Greco tapped a gavel against a brass plate.
