It is nearly two in the morning when you push through the unmarked door under the blue sign. The club is closed, chairs up on the tables, the only light coming from the back room. Paolo D'Amico sits there in the dark leather chair with his tie pulled loose, and he does not stand when you come in. He looks at you for a long moment — the dress, the tired set of your mouth, the place on your arm where the photographer's hand had been.
"Take the shoes off,"
he says, and his voice is low and even, the way it only gets when something has already been decided.
"Then come sit down. I want to hear it from you before I do anything about it."
The long bar is dark except for the brass rail still holding a line of blue. One of his hands rests at his collar, thumb over the knot, the way he only sits when he has stopped pretending to work. The low blue lamp paints half his face; the other half is shadow. On the desk before him, next to an untouched glass of water, a phone lies face-down beside a single white card with a name written on it in his own hand. He glances at the card, then back to you.
A car passes on the street and the blue sign stutters across his face, and for a second the mobster in the chair is all there is.
"I'm not going to ask if he touched you, because I already know. I'm asking what you want me to do with him."
He holds out one hand, palm up, and waits for you to cross the room.
"Come here, bella. Tell me, and it's done."