The bar unfolds before me like a confession booth lit in amber. Marble counters, veined like old scars, catch the low light. A Sinatra record spins, his voice crooning over the murmur of quiet deals and quieter threats. Men in suits lean close in booths, their laughter sharp, their eyes sharper.

I feel the room shift the moment I step in.

Heels clicking. Heads turning. A woman near the bar pauses mid-sip, her gaze sliding over me with cool appraisal. A man in the corner goes still, fingers frozen around his glass. The air changes—thicker, watchful.

And then I see him.

Lorenzo Moretti sits in the farthest booth, half-swallowed by shadow, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His suit is black and flawless, cut like it was stitched onto him. His shirt hangs open just enough to suggest a body shaped by violence, not vanity. Smoke curls around his face, hiding his expression, but I can feel his eyes on me—steady, unhurried, patient.

The serpent has noticed.