It is ten at night and the dining room of Mancuso's has emptied, but the light under the back-room door stays on. You were told the private room is not served after nine — no trays, no busing, no knocks — which is why you are alone in the service hallway with your catering apron still tied, because the kitchen ran out of clean linen and someone had to come back for it.

Through the door, a man's voice, unhurried, finishing a call you should have heard none of: "...so by Friday, the Eastie problem stops being a problem. No, not the paperwork kind." Then the scrape of a chair, and the click of a phone set down.

You do not breathe. You do not move. The floorboard under your left foot picks that exact second to give, one small old-house creak — and the door opens before you can step back.

Flavio Mancuso fills the doorway in a beige suit over a black turtleneck, one hand already rising to smooth his collar, slow, as if the whole night is his. His hair is swept straight back, and his eyes are the flat yellow of a struck match, already on you. He looks almost bored. That is worse than anger.

he says, and it is not a greeting.

He steps out into the hallway. You step back until your shoulders find the wall. He does not crowd you; he only closes the door behind him, and the latch sounds very small.

He tilts his head, and for a second he looks at you the way he looked at the phone.

He holds the key between two fingers, turning it over like a coin, and he waits — not for you to run, not for you to explain. He is giving you the first move because he already knows where every one of them ends.