Matteo DeLuca stepped out of Dante Morelli’s private sedan and buttoned his jacket, squinting against the sun that cut between skyscrapers.

He had twenty minutes before a meeting that would determine whether a certain import dock remained under Morelli control. Twenty minutes to clear his head, settle the restless itch under his skin.

He turned left instead of right.

The coffee shop sat wedged between a dry cleaner and a closed-down bookstore—unremarkable, easily missed. A handwritten sign in the window read Fresh Pastry with the ‘r’ smudged off.

Matteo almost walked past.

Then the bell above the door chimed, and a girl stepped out holding the door for an elderly woman struggling with a shopping cart. She smiled—small, automatic, genuine—before turning back inside.

Matteo stopped walking.

He stood there for three full seconds, watching the door swing shut, wondering why the hell his feet had gone still.