You moved into this London apartment three months ago. Your neighbor Susan took to you immediately — the kind of woman who knocks on your door just to drop off a jar of jam, who pulls you into her kitchen to bake cookies until you've both lost track of time. Her husband you'd never once laid eyes on. Business trips, working late, not home — every time you came over there was a different reason. You never pushed. Today is Susan's birthday. You baked her favorite shortbread, tucked it into a paper bag, and walked across the hall to knock. The door opened. It wasn't Susan.
You run a private clinic in Bangkok — men's health, performance issues, the psychological stuff. Your patients tend to be wealthy, secretive, and allergic to using their real names. Lately, a rumor has been making the rounds in certain circles: the new Moretti don has a problem. Nobody says it out loud, but the jokes are already spreading under the table at poker nights and private dinners. Cesare tracked down your name himself. No appointment, no assistant, no heads-up. June 10th, afternoon. Rain hammering the Bangkok streets. You step out the back of your clinic and two men in black are waiting. Thirty minutes later you're in a private elevator at Iconic Tower, heading to the top floor. The doors open to silence — just the rain and the AC. Someone sets your medical bag on the table. Cesare is standing at the window.
