Musulin remarks that Jelić looks fatigued, and Jelić admits that he has not been sleeping well of late. His wife is ill, although the doctors are not sure what is wrong with her. She has lost weight and struggles to keep down solid food. She weeps in the night, and her body odor has changed. He believes his wife may be dying, and it appears there is nothing the doctors can do but watch. Ivan Jelić thinks his wife needs better doctors, but such medical expertise is expensive.

Musulin notes the strong smell of rakija in the air. Jelić confesses that he knocked over a bottle the night before and some of it may have soaked into one of the rugs. Musulin tells him not to worry: as the day goes on, and more and more dishes are prepared, the smell will fade. Anyway, says Musulin, a restaurant smelling of good rakija is no bad thing.

Jelić has timed the delivery of the owner’s coffee and burek perfectly, because it arrives just as Nikola Musulin takes his seat. The older man leaves the younger to his breakfast, and puts on his coat in order to step outside and smoke a cigarette, smoking not being permitted in Tri Lovca, another of its owner’s quirks in a city that runs on nicotine. Musulin barely looks up as Jelić leaves. He is already absorbed in his newspapers.

Ivan Jelić closes the front door of the restaurant behind him and buttons his coat. He does not light a cigarette, but instead walks away quickly, passing through the early-morning pedestrians on Skadarlija. An acquaintance greets him, but Jelić does not hear, or pays no attention if he does. Jelić is troubled by his conscience. He likes the men and women with whom he works. They are kind and industrious. There are currently six staff members in Tri Lovca, along with two of Nikola Musulin’s bodyguards. A third bodyguard sits outside in the Mercedes, staring at the screen of his phone.

After Tri Lovca had closed the previous night, Ivan Jelić had remained behind, ostensibly to go over the books with a glass of quince rakija. Shortly before 1 a.m., he answered a knock at the back door and admitted five men, two of whom were expert carpenters. Over the course of the next four hours the carpenters had carefully removed the top of Nikola Musulin’s exclusive table, hollowed out the interior, and packed it with C4 explosive. The top of the table was then replaced, the sawdust and woodchips gathered and disposed of, and the rakija spilled to disguise any lingering scents of wood and glue.