Marco laughed—a dry, sad sound. “My wife thinks I’ll be dead by dawn.”
At sixty-three, he still moved through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II with the precision of a tailor’s needle. His shoes were not Armani. His suit was not Armani. His name, despite what tourists whispered, was not a brand. It was a curse his father had given him as a joke: Salo , after the salty Roman wind, and Armani , after the uncle who had abandoned the family for a better life in the north.
Marco finished his espresso. He looked lighter, as if the rain had washed something away.
Marco laughed—a dry, sad sound. “My wife thinks I’ll be dead by dawn.”
At sixty-three, he still moved through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II with the precision of a tailor’s needle. His shoes were not Armani. His suit was not Armani. His name, despite what tourists whispered, was not a brand. It was a curse his father had given him as a joke: Salo , after the salty Roman wind, and Armani , after the uncle who had abandoned the family for a better life in the north.
Marco finished his espresso. He looked lighter, as if the rain had washed something away.
