Page 207 of Diego

His expression is serious, his attention already moving over the five of us as he approaches. He looks like a man who knows how to put someone at ease and also knows when doing so would be inappropriate.

Nico is last.

He is younger than the other two, closer to Matteo, Tomasso, and Dante in age than he is to Giovanni and Antonio, but nothing about his presence feels youthful. He is quiet from the moment he steps off the plane, broad-shouldered beneath his coat, his expression giving away very little as his gaze moves across the airfield.

Reserved is the first word that comes to mind.

The second is commanding.

He does not need Giovanni’s history or Antonio’s social ease. There is something naturally domineering about him, an expectation in the way he carries himself that suggests he is accustomed to being listened to.

Luca’s son.

Our nephew, technically.

The thought is still strange, and I push it aside before I spend too much time on it.

Giovanni reaches us first and offers Ricardo his hand.

“Ricardo.”

“Giovanni.”

Then Giovanni turns to me. “Diego.”

We shake hands.

“Welcome to Chicago,” I say. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“So do I.”

His voice is low. No wasted words.

Introductions move quickly after that. Antonio greets us with slightly more warmth, while Nico keeps his brief and direct. There is no awkward attempt to pretend this is a family reunion. That can happen another time.

Tonight one of Giovanni’s people is missing.

“We have a room ready inside,” Ricardo says. “Mario has people at the office working through what you sent ahead. We thought it made more sense to compare everything before anybody moved.”

Giovanni nods. “Agreed.”

A long table has already been cleared in the private room attached to the hangar, and within minutes Antonio has a leather folder open across one end while Giovanni removes his coat and takes the chair opposite Ricardo.

Nico remains standing for a while.

I notice because Lorenzo does the same thing when he wants to see everything at once.

Matteo and Tomasso take the far side of the table with Dante between them. I sit near Ricardo, and Antonio begins laying out what they brought.

Printed property records, corporate filings, a map, several pages of handwritten notes, and a list of addresses.

It is more organized than I expected from an investigation that changed direction quickly enough to send one of Giovanni’s people into another city.

Giovanni puts one finger against the top sheet. “His name doesn’t matter outside this room. What matters is that he knows our procedures and he does not disappear without contact.”

Nobody argues.

“He was following a company we found attached to several transactions in Atlantic City,” Antonio explains. His voice is smoother than Giovanni’s, but the seriousness remains. “On paper, the properties had different owners. Once we worked backward through the entities, the separation started to disappear.”