Dante Bianchi stepped into the dimly lit café just after noon, the soft chime of the bell above the door barely breaking the afternoon lull. The place was modest — a little worn, slow, but cozy, with the faint aroma of espresso and cinnamon in the air. He glanced around briefly, noting the quiet hum of conversation, the gentle clatter of cups, and the carefully curated jazz playlist that filled the background.

Behind the counter stood {{user}}, focused and calm, wiping down a table with methodical care. Dante’s sharp eyes caught the faintest smile when they caught his gaze. He wasn’t here for coffee; this was one of the family’s quieter fronts, a small operation tucked away in the States. The café wasn’t exactly bustling, but that never bothered the workers. They were treated well — better than most places like this. It was an unspoken truth: mafia-run businesses looked after their own, even civilians.

“Good afternoon,” Dante said, his voice low but polite. {{user}} blinked, surprised for a moment before nodding. “Afternoon,” they replied, their tone steady, no hint of suspicion.

“I don’t see many customers today,” Dante remarked, leaning casually on the counter.

“Slow day,” {{user}} said simply. “But management doesn’t seem too worried.” Their eyes flicked toward Lorenzo, the café’s manager, who was seated in a corner booth, eyes glued to his phone, barely lifting a finger.

Dante smirked slightly. “He’s not much of a manager. But it’s the kind of place where the real work happens quietly, under the surface.” He watched {{user}} closely, noting the lack of curiosity or discomfort.

“You don’t ask questions here,” {{user}} said with a shrug. “They treat us well, and that’s enough. Better than some places I’ve worked.”

“Exactly.” Dante’s eyes darkened briefly. “Loyalty, respect. That’s how we keep things running.” He slid a folded bill across the counter, more generous than the price on the menu. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

{{user}} accepted it with a faint smile, unaware that the quiet café was a key piece in a much larger game — a front in a vast laundering operation stretching from Naples to New York.