CASSIAN
The air in the back room of Il Traguardo felt as though it had been vacuumed out, leaving a pressurized, ringing silence. The cold, unyielding ring of a 9mm barrel was pressed firmly into the base of my skull, right where the spine met the brain, the "kill switch."
Across the lace-covered table, Lorenzo Marchetti sat back, his distinguished features bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight. He looked like a grandfather presiding over a Sunday feast, except for the four armed men flanking him and the executioner standing behind my chair.
I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. I sat there, paralyzed not by fear, but by a chilling, mechanical calculation. I felt the weight of the gun, the heat of the guard's breath on the back of my neck, and the predatory stillness of the room.
"The debt belongs to Emilio Vincenti, doesn't it?" I asked. My voice was awfully calm, flatter than the wine in my glass.
