On the day of the art gala, Cardo arrived near the venue before dawn.He stayed alone in an ordinary hotel two blocks away. This time, he didn't take a private jet, didn't use a mafia motorcade, and didn't use any elevator that might malfunction.At six in the morning, he walked step by step along the streets of Los Angeles to the main entrance of the arts center.There were still a full four hours before the gala officially began.He wore a very low-key dark trench coat and carried only water and black coffee. He sat quietly on a bench at the street corner, his eyes never once leaving the front entrance.While he waited, he didn't call the organizing committee, didn't use any of his old underworld pressure, and didn't have anyone slip his name into the VIP backstage.This time, he didn't want to use the surname "Falcone," the name that once made everyone afraid, or his connections, to force any kind of response from me.He just wanted to look at me from a distance, in the open sunligh
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