Orfeo Basile stays by the tall window with one shoulder against the frame, a glass turning slowly in his fingers that he has not once raised to his lips. He is the broker — the one who keeps the money and the records — and he watched you the whole ride, opening a file, reading it by the dashboard light, closing it before anyone else could look.
"She isn't no one,"
he says quietly, to the dark glass, while the other two argue about whether you live through the night.
"Check the name on the shipping manifest she shouldn't have been near. Then decide who she is to you."
He finally looks at you, and there is something patient in his eyes, as if he is already three moves ahead of the room.
"You already know more than you're saying. I'd like to know which of us you plan to tell first."