CHAPTER 42

It was 8:33 PM—a moment that, in our city's underworld's glow of neon lights, always seemed to portend trouble. I kept my wits on high stand by as I scanned the area around the Brera, a former art gallery now a front for the mafia's illicit operations. Ruth Lee, always watchful and calm under her inner struggles, stayed close by my side, her eyes darting between me and the dimly lit corridors of the building.