EIGHT.

As I trail behind Riccardo, my eyes greedily absorb every opulent detail of the restaurant's grand entrance.

The tantalizing scents of gourmet cuisine fill my nostrils, making my stomach rumble with hunger. I pivot my body gracefully to the side, observing the flurry of waitresses scurrying out of the kitchen with trays of delectable cuisine in their hands, their expressions revealing a hint of disarray.

The walls reverberate with the sound of light chatter, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

The eatery is teeming with patrons, each exuding an air of affluence that leaves me pondering whether the establishment genuinely thrives, or if it serves as a front for illicit financial transactions.

Heart racing, I follow Riccardo's lead as we make our way through the swinging door and down a dimly lit hallway. My mind races with questions as we come to a stop in front of a door at the end of the corridor.

Is Don Valentino behind this door?

My gut tells me it's something siniste