ON THE RESTAURANT'S TELEVISION, the grainy image of the racetrack was abruptly replaced by a flashing notice, white letters against a red background:
"Due to technical difficulties, the next race has been temporarily postponed. We expect the issue to be resolved shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy our hospitality."
The ambient noise — previously dominated by the enthusiasm of gamblers — became an uneasy murmur of voices, glasses, and silverware. Saul looked up at the screen, crossed his legs, and checked his wristwatch with a slight furrow of his brow.
— Meggie, it's been more than twenty minutes since the priest left the table — he observed, making no effort to conceal his concern.
The American journalist, distracted by the menu, raised an eyebrow.
— So what? Maybe he went to... relieve himself. Some people take longer than others — she replied with restrained irony.
Saul, however, did not smile.
— Don't you find it a coincidence that Hawkings hasn't come back either? — he asked quietly, casting a quick glance toward the English aristocrat's table, now empty except for two half-finished drinks.
— Coincidences are one thing this country never lacks — Meggie replied, trying to mask her own uneasiness. — The only real problem I see with the priest's delay is my hunger. Etiquette says we should wait for him before ordering, but my stomach isn't nearly that well-mannered.
— We could at least order an appetizer — Saul suggested, discreetly signaling the waiter.
— That would certainly stop my stomach from complaining — she joked, trying to ease the tension.
— What do you recommend? — the journalist asked, absentmindedly flipping through the menu, his eyes still drifting toward the side door.
— I like this one... pâté de champagne — she replied, pointing to the item with her index finger.
— Fine by me — Saul agreed, though his attention had already shifted to something far more urgent.
As he placed the order with the waiter, the journalist felt his cell phone vibrate discreetly inside the inner pocket of his navy blazer. The short, insistent vibration shattered the brief illusion of normalcy.
— Someone just sent me a text message — he murmured, pulling out the phone.
The name on the screen made his stomach turn cold:
Ítalo.
He opened the message, and the words appeared before his eyes like a coded warning:
Saul, the Ipsissimus is dead in the nearest restroom. The police have been called, and Scotland Yard will probably arrive as well. I'm carrying false identification. I need you to get me out of here immediately. Meet me at the restaurant exit...
For a moment, Saul felt the world fall silent.
The clinking of glasses, the scrape of silverware, the laughter around him — everything seemed to dissolve into a distant haze.
He looked up at Meggie, who was still smiling at the waiter, completely unaware of the disaster about to unfold.
— Is something wrong? — she asked, noticing the sudden pallor in his face.
Saul hesitated, slipped the phone back into his pocket, drew a deep breath, and answered with the cold voice of a man accustomed to emergencies:
— Yes... but not here. We need to leave — he said, leaving a generous bill on the table and, without looking back, heading toward the exit —
— where destiny was already waiting for him.