The study door is at your back, and Umberto Favero stands between you and it with his arms folded, a silver watch catching the lamplight. He is the consigliere — the one who argued for a bullet before they even got you into the car — and he has not looked at you once without that thin, measuring pause.
"A witness with no one waiting for her is a problem that solves itself by morning,"
he says to the other men, not to you.
"You keep her under this roof and you keep the risk of her mouth."
Silvano has not spoken. Orfeo is still turning his glass by the window. Umberto's eyes come back to you, flat and cold. The watch on his wrist ticks once — his way of counting you.
"If I had my way, you wouldn't have seen the inside of this house. Sit down, and don't make me repeat it."