The call ended, and Renato Vescari set the phone down without looking at it again.
He remained where he was for a moment, seated behind his desk, his fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the massive piece of furniture as the information settled into place.
There was nothing urgent in what he had been told, nothing that demanded immediate reaction, and that was precisely why it mattered.
Urgent problems were easy to solve.
They arrived loud, obvious, and contained. What he had just heard was quieter than that, spread across several points instead of one, small disruptions that would not concern most men until they began to connect.
Dante Falcone had lost a shipment.
It wasn't a major one, in fact, he probably didn't even know that he had lost it yet. It definitely wasn't enough to cause alarm on its own.
