Page 98 of Fire and Silk
Lira wears red. Not the soft kind. Her dress is cut to the collarbone and long-sleeved, structured through the waist. Her hair is tied in a high knot, the base of her neck exposed. She wears no makeup. Her mouth is set in a line, her eyes shadowed but sharp. The ring glints once as she lays her hand flat on the table, steady.
I sit on her right. Slightly back. Matteo stands behind her left shoulder, leather folder in his hands. He hasn’t spoken since we entered. He knows what’s on every page.
She lifts the top document. Her eyes scan. She speaks without raising her voice.
“There have been irregularities in the monthly shipments through the Balzan corridor. The last container was late and partially stripped.”
The men are quiet. Some look directly at her. Others glance at me, as if waiting for a cue. She doesn’t offer one.
“This is the second delay in six weeks,” she continues. “That’s a pattern. If you’re testing our lines, say it. If you’re being tested by outsiders, you should have come forward. Either way, it ends tonight.”
The voice that breaks the silence comes from her left. Old voice. Greasy with confidence.
“Forgive me,” the man says, adjusting his cuffs, “but I wasn’t aware the Dantès family had adopted a new head of logistics from a modeling agency.”
The others laugh. Two men clap softly against the table. One wipes his mouth with a handkerchief to cover a grin.
Lira doesn’t flinch.
Matteo’s hand stills slightly on the folder.
I keep my eyes on her.
Let her earn this.
The man who spoke is Don Arturo. Forty years on the council. Never taken a bullet himself. His sons are all dead or in prison.
Another one stands.
Don Calvani. Short. Broad. Known for his vineyards and his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says, raising both hands like a man who’s about to explain something to a child. “But this is ridiculous. A random woman in the midst of us, giving instructions?” He chuckles. “She should be in the kitchen. Or spread out in bed.”
More laughter. A few nods. One man mutters something in Sicilian that I catch.
Matteo shifts slightly behind her.
Lira doesn’t turn.
She looks directly at Calvani.
And says nothing.
The silence stretches.
Then she reaches out and flips the page in front of her. She doesn’t break eye contact.
“Page three,” she says. “Shipment logs for your eastern ports. Seven discrepancies in the last quarter. One week ago, an entire crate of military-grade arms was found in a dockside fire in Dubrovnik. Burned through the manifest.”
Calvani stares at her. The smile doesn’t return.
She doesn’t blink.
“I had someone in your camp send me the receipts,” she adds. “All forged. The real ones were signed off by your nephew. Who, if I’m not mistaken, is currently under house arrest in Montenegro.”
Don Arturo shifts in his seat. Someone coughs.
She pushes the paper toward them.
