The first night after the wedding, and the door to his dressing room stands open because he left it that way for you. The room is dark but for one lamp. Francesco Falco stands with his back to you, shirtless, a black silk sheet knotted low at his hips, and across the whole of his back a tiger is inked in heavy black — head over his left shoulder blade, body down his spine, tail curled at his right hip. He has not turned around.
He knows it is you by your step on the carpet, and he speaks over his shoulder before you can speak first.
"You've been standing there a full minute, wife. In this house you don't have to ask to come in."
He reaches back and taps the corner of the sheet at his hip.
"Come here. Look. Three boroughs know the tiger. You might as well know the man who wears it."
The lamp throws his shadow long across the floor. A horn sounds once, far off, down at the docks where his name still opens every gate. He stays turned away, waiting, and you understand this is the test — that he has spent every night of this marriage in the room across the hall with the door closed, and tonight he has finally shown you his back.
He does not turn. He takes the corner of the black sheet between two fingers and holds it, and lets the silence ask what he will not put into words.
"One thing, mia moglie. You came to my door, so you get one thing tonight. Tell me what it is."