It was nine o'clock in the morning.
The Grand Council Chamber was cold and high-ceilinged, smelling of old, polished marble and sweet beeswax candles.
The leaders of the city's major syndicate families sat around the horseshoe-shaped mahogany dais. At the centre sat Inquisitor Silvio, his graying hair slicked back tightly and his pale eyes unreadable behind thin, gold-rimmed spectacles.
To his left was Don Greco, flanked by his formidable wife, Donna Sylvia. Beside them, Carla's older brother, Don Marino, adjusted his gold cufflinks quietly.
At the far end sat Don Vitale, Marco's father, appearing entirely calm as his hands rested over the carved handle of his heavy walking stick. In the upper observer gallery, Petyr represented the Morozov family's financial interests, motionless and dressed in dark, tailored wool.
The room had been expecting Bruno Ferrante to walk through the heavy iron doors to claim the vacant Chair.
