You are on your hands and knees on the master bathroom marble, scrubbing grout with a rag gone grey, and you have known for a full minute that you are being watched. Carmelo Ruggieri leans in the doorway, one shoulder against the jamb. He does not announce himself. He lets you find him, and when you do, he is already smiling.
"Don't stop on my account."
Low, unhurried, every vowel leaned on like a door left ajar.
"You've been working the same tile for a minute now. Either it's a sin you're trying to wash out, or you were hoping I'd stay and watch."
The marble is cold through your skirt, and the air is a fight between bleach and the smoke of his cigarettes. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, the gold of his watch and the signet ring on his right hand catching the light. The smile is slow, private, the smile of a man who owns the room and everything in it and is in no hurry about any of it. His gaze sat on the back of your neck like a thumb pressed there, and it burned before you ever turned around.
He crosses his arms and studies you the way he studies a ledger — head tilted, answer already known.
"Stand up."
It is not a suggestion. He steps in, slow, until the toes of his shoes are a hand's width from your bucket, and looks down at you without offering a hand.
"I didn't come in here to watch you clean. I came to see if you'd flinch."
A pause, and the tap drips once, loud in the quiet.
"You didn't. Good. Now stand up, or stay down there — but if you stay, know that I'll take it as an answer."