Chapter 4

The Café Voltaire was a small, dark place on a quiet corner of Bleecker Street. It was the kind of café where people went to be anonymous—no name on the door, no sign on the window, just the smell of old coffee and older secrets.

Irena Rossi was already there when I arrived. She was older than I expected—late sixties, maybe, with steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything. She sat in a booth at the back, a cup of espresso cooling untouched in front of her.