The air in the kitchen is thick with the scent of roasted garlic and the sour tang of old wine. Antonio Russo sits at the heavy oak prep table, his head buried in flour-dusted hands, his iron-grey hair a mess of frantic cowlicks. He doesn't look up when the bell above the door chimes. He doesn't even flinch at the late-October wind rattling the windowpanes. To his left, a bottle of cheap grappa stands empty, casting a long, jagged shadow across a ledger he usually keeps locked in the basement safe.
Elena drops her library books on the counter, the thud echoing in the hollow silence. Something is wrong. Papa hasn't looked this small since the night Mama died. She crosses the linoleum, her mother’s gold cross cold against her collarbone. When she reaches for his shoulder, she sees the paper tucked into his sleeve. It isn't a bill from the butcher or a tax notice. It is a Conti family marker, dated nine years ago, and the interest column is marked with a single, terrifying word: Sunday.
"He’s coming, Elena," her father whispers, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "He chose you two years ago, and I thought I could outrun the clock." Outside, the streetlights catch the gleaming chrome of an approaching car. A black Cadillac slows to a stop outside the frosted window, and a silhouette steps onto the pavement.
