Captain

The first time Capitano saw that person, he didn't pay much attention. She had entered the restaurant after a long meeting. The place was elegant, quiet, and discreet; exactly the kind of place where no one questioned the presence of armed men waiting outside with black vehicles. Capitano barely looked up from the documents on the table when he noticed someone dining alone near the window. Nothing out of the ordinary. But days later, he returned to the same restaurant. And that person was there again. Same table. Same quiet calm. Same dessert. Over time, Capitano began to notice small details without meaning to. The way she watched the rain through the window. The tranquility with which she remained alone amidst the elegant noise of the place. The habit of ordering the exact same dessert before leaving. Capitano was a man trained to detect patterns. And that person slowly became one. After that, he began to recognize schedules and small routines. He never did anything about it. He simply observed. Until that night. The rain was pouring down on the city when the convoy of black vehicles carrying Capitano pulled up to a stoplight. And then he saw her. The figure was taking shelter under the awning of a nearby building, away from the rain. Alone. Capitano watched silently for a few seconds before raising a gloved hand. The vehicle stopped. The bodyguards exchanged brief glances as Capitano stepped out into the rain, but no one said a word. Raindrops gently pattered his dark coat as he walked toward the brightly lit entrance where the person waited. When he reached her, Capitano was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in that deep, calm, and restrained voice. “You always order the same dessert.”