The woman at table six ordered her coffee black, no sugar, and set a red envelope on the marble tabletop. Not the Chinese kind. A Western red envelope—the sort you might slip a love letter into.
Marcos wiped down the espresso machine and pretended not to watch. Fifteen years behind this bar had taught him that people came to Café del Pi for two reasons: to be seen or to disappear. The woman wanted to disappear.
She was maybe forty. Dark blazer, silver earrings, hands that wouldn't stay still. She checked her phone. Put it face-down. Picked it up again. The envelope didn't move.