The doors of the black sedans opened one after another. Polished shoes stepped into puddles, splashing muddy water. Men carrying black umbrellas quickly formed protective rings around their respective leaders. Raindrops fell like pearls, bursting into sprays against the umbrellas.
Nino's Restaurant beside Old Town glowed with dim yellow light. Rain wound down its stained-glass windows, breaking the image of the Virgin Mary into blurred fragments.
"I love this place. I haven't been here in a long time, but I'll always remember coming here every day for pasta when I was young."
An old gramophone played a low, melancholy Sicilian folk song. The warm aromas of tomato sauce, basil, and garlic filled the air. Carmine Falcone sat at the innermost table, leisurely twirling seafood pasta around a silver fork.
He wore a tailored dark gray three-piece suit, with an exquisite Eagle-Head Tie Clip pinned to his tie. His graying hair was neatly slicked back. Though he was over sixty, his back remained ramrod straight. Only his pale blue eyes, nestled deep among his wrinkles, held a lingering weariness and chill.
"This place reminds me of Old Tony's restaurant." Falcone set down his wineglass. His voice was low and steady, every word carrying an unquestionable weight. "A shame people these days no longer appreciate tradition."
"Tradition is a fine thing, Mr. Carmine. We should all respect it."
Salvador Maroni shook the water off his shoes and sat opposite Falcone. Built like a bull, he wore a tight black shirt with its collar open, exposing thick chest hair. His gold watch chain flashed harshly under the lights. A vicious knife scar across his right brow made his expression look all the more savage.
He reached for an oyster, scooped out the flesh, and tossed it into his mouth. "A little overcooked, wouldn't