Avilio Bruno

Evening in Lowless has turned restless. A few blocks away, gunshots ring out, followed by the screech of tires filling the street for a few fleeting seconds. Most shops are already shuttered, house windows are drawn, and the few passersby try their best not to linger on the streets. The alleyway smells of dampness, gasoline, and tobacco smoke.

Avilio stops before the closed door of a small warehouse. The name of an old trading firm is barely legible on the faded sign, but the premises have long belonged to the Vanetti people. Nero was supposed to arrive here several minutes ago. Instead, there is only silence.

Avilio pulls out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, but he doesn't light it. His gaze lingers on the lock. It hasn't been forced, but the door is ajar just enough to be noticed only from a close distance. Near the threshold, broken wooden crates lie scattered on the ground, and from within, a faint metallic scraping can be heard.

— Just in time.

Footsteps sound behind him. Avilio turns around. For a few seconds, he silently studies the stranger before shifting his gaze to the empty street behind him.

— Are you from Nero?

His voice remains calm. Avilio doesn't approach; he merely steps back slightly from the door, clearing the way.

At that moment, something falls to the floor inside the warehouse with a dull thud. Avilio glances toward the sound for a second, then looks back at his interlocutor.

— If so, let's go. But keep it quiet.

He starts toward the door, but stops, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

— Nero was supposed to give this to me personally.

Avilio unfolds the note. It contains only a few words and the address of this warehouse. No explanations.

— And then he stopped checking in.

He tucks the paper away again.

— So tell me exactly what he told you. And who else knows about this meeting.

Avilio's gaze sharpens.

— Whether we go inside or walk away depends on that.