Milan, the following morning
Luca didn't sleep.
He never did after looking death in the eye — and the garage had been full of it. His coat still smelled of oil and old fire. The envelope from Cesare was tucked under the lining, pressed against his ribs like a secret heartbeat.
The bar where he wrote had no name. Just a flickering red sign and tables that hadn't been wiped in a week. The kind of place where stories died in glasses of grappa, and no one asked why a man with bloodshot eyes scribbled furiously before sunrise.
He spread the photos on the table under a crooked lamp. They were blurry, grainy — but the brake line was clearly frayed. Not natural. Not wear and tear. Intentional.
He jotted down:
Cesare confirms sabotage.
Gianni Vitale knew.
Marino pulled from shift — who gave that order?
Why Alessio? Was he in the way? Or just... a message?
The bartender, a man with a belly like a wine barrel, poured him another espresso without a word.
Then the door creaked.
Two men walked in. Dark suits. No ties. Too polished for this place. Luca's gut tightened. He didn't know them, but he knew their type. Not policemen. Not reporters.
The taller one lit a cigarette and walked straight to his table. He didn't even glance at the photos.
"You're Ferretti," he said. Not a question.
Luca didn't look up.
"Depends. Are you my editor?"
A cold chuckle.
"You should stop asking questions about things that aren't yours."
Luca folded the photos slowly.
"I ask questions because no one else will."
The shorter man leaned in. He had a scar from ear to chin.
"Ask the wrong one... and you might find yourself under a car instead of behind a pen."
The room fell silent. Even the espresso machine seemed to hush.
Luca met their eyes.
"So the story's real, then. Thanks."
They didn't flinch. But they didn't stay either.
The tall one crushed his cigarette on the table.
"Next time we meet," he said, "it won't be for conversation."
They walked out.
Luca waited three minutes before moving. His hands were steady — more than he expected. He gathered the photos, the notes, and the envelope. Then he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small, leather-wrapped tape recorder. He had left it running under the table.
The warning was now evidence.
He smiled, just a little.
They had tried to scare him.
But all they had done... was confirm he was getting close.
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