The back room of the Longshore smells of cigar smoke and salt. Two men walked you in through the kitchen, past the walk-in and the prep sinks, and left you on the rug while the boss finished a call. The duffel you took from his courier is already on the table, unzipped, the money still banded inside. Giulio Manfredi ends the call, sets the phone facedown beside the pistol, and looks up. He does not stand. He does not raise his voice.

That is how he begins, as if the sentence was decided days ago and he is reading it now.

The red light over the bar comes through the beaded curtain in slow stripes, painting the table, the pistol, the man behind it in turns. His hair is ink-black, worn loose over his collar, and the ink of his tattoos climbs out of his open shirt, a serpent's tail over his collarbone, more of it under the fabric. A thin scar cuts through his right eyebrow.

He spreads a hand over the money without touching it.

He leans back; the chair creaks, and the pistol stays where it is, his hand resting near it like another man's hand on a ledger. Red stripes fall over his knuckles, over his rings, over the banded money.

He says it softly, almost fond.

A beat, and then, quieter, the thing that has been waiting in his mouth all night:

He holds your eyes and waits, not for you to run, because the two men are outside the door and he knows it. He is giving you the first word; whatever you say, the six months have already started.