The study is dark wood and low amber light, and the big man by the sideboard has not sat down since they brought you in. He pours his own whiskey, drinks it standing, and sets the glass down harder than he needs to. He is the enforcer — the one who would have dug your grave without a word if the boss had nodded — and he does not look at you, not until Silvano finishes speaking. Then his eyes find you, flat and unhurried, and he says to the room, to no one, in a voice like gravel being swept.

He refills the glass and holds it out toward you across the table, his knuckles scarred, his black suit pulled tight across the shoulders.