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A retired editor in Milan passed the message to a former court reporter in Bologna, who delivered it to a lawyer Bellini had trusted before threats ended her investigative career.

No names were exchanged. Adriana was never mentioned.

The message promised evidence connecting the Coccico cartel to human trafficking, bribed officials and senior members of the Church.

Bellini replied within four hours and insisted we meet.

Adriana walked beside me through a narrow Florentine street, her coat buttoned to her throat. Rain had stopped less than an hour earlier, leaving the stone pavement slick beneath the lamps. Music drifted from the night market ahead, tangled with vendors calling to passing tourists and the low murmur of hundreds of conversations.

Raze had demanded six men accompany us.

I had taken two.

More would have drawn attention. Two could blend into the street and kill anyone who came too close.

They followed at staggered distances, dressed like tourists, with pistols beneath their jackets and knives where a search would be less likely to find them. Another team waited with two vehicles south of the market.

Adriana knew none of their positions. Raze had insisted on that much.

“If she knows where they are, she’ll keep looking for them,” Raze had proclaimed. “Anyone watching her will know she expects trouble.”

Now she moved without glancing behind us, though I saw the tension settle higher in her shoulders whenever footsteps approached too quickly.

The café meeting point occupied the corner of an old stone building. Small tables crowded the pavement beneath a striped awning. Warm light spilled through the windows, catching on brass fixtures and mirrored walls.

Lucia Bellini sat alone inside, near the rear.

I recognized her from the photograph Artemus had provided. She was in her mid-forties, with dark hair cut bluntly at the jaw and a face sharpened by intelligence and years spent distrusting the things she heard.

A red scarf marked her as our contact.

Her coffee remained untouched.

Adriana slowed beside me.

“She looks frightened.”

“That’s understandable, considering her line of work.”

I placed my palm against the small of Adriana’s back and guided her through the entrance.

The touch was meant to keep her moving, but the heat of her through the coat followed my hand even after I withdrew it.

Bellini watched us cross the room. Her gaze moved over my face, then Adriana’s, before cutting toward the window.

She stood.

I pulled out Adriana’s chair and waited until she sat.

Lucia noticed the gesture. Her eyes returned to me with a brief flicker of understanding, as though she had already identified the one weakness I had failed to conceal.

I took the chair facing the entrance, while Adriana sat to my left.

The café was half occupied. Two elderly men played cards near the bar. A couple shared a dessert beside the window.

Nothing appeared unusual, which meant nothing, really.

Lucia wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.