The room was quiet, except for the occasional clink of glasses as wine was poured. Eleven men sat around the long, polished table, their expressions carefully guarded.
Lucas sat near the center, leaning back in his chair with one arm placed casually over the backrest. Anton was across from him, his face neutral, though Lucas could tell he was as tense as everyone else.
At the head of the table was Don Vitelli, sitting slightly apart from the others, as if the distance made him feel safer. His fingers tapped the edge of the table, a restless rhythm that got on Lucas's nerves.
A server moved around the table, pouring expensive wine into each Don's glass. The server stopped at Vitelli, but Vitelli waved him away.
"Not tonight," Vitelli said, his tone curt.
Lucas raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead taking a sip from his own glass.
"Not trusting Carlos's wine tonight, Vitelli?" One of them asked playfully.
Vitelli didn't even look up. "I trust myself more," he said flatly.
