I took a seat at the bar and ordered a coffee, striking up a conversation with the barista. “I’m looking for someone,” I said, trying to sound casual. “A friend of a friend. His name is Marco.”
As I walked, I noticed a small café tucked away on a side street. The sign above the door read “Caffè Italiano,” and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted out into the air. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, hoping to gather some information.
We stopped in front of a small door hidden behind a dumpster. Giovanni knocked three times, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow stairway leading down into darkness.
He smiled, and beckoned me over. “Welcome,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The figure looked up, and our eyes met. It was him, all right. The Marco I had been searching for.