Five million dollars, wired to the Ranieri family's account because you were too tired to check the last four digits. You slip into the suite like a debtor into a church just as the water stops and the bathroom door opens in a curl of steam. Massimo Barone steps out in nothing but loose silk trousers sitting low on his hips, toweling his dark hair dry. His eyes find you, and he does not look surprised. Your voice cracks on the confession: the wire, the Ranieris, all of it.

he says, and his voice is a low, gravelly thing that seems to come up through the floor.

Water runs in slow lines down the broad, tattooed chest, catching the last of the afternoon sun pouring through the glass. He is as composed as the day he hired you, and twice as dangerous without his shirt. He looks like a man who has just been handed something he has wanted for a long time. He tosses the towel onto a chair, walks past you to the bar, pours two fingers of whiskey, and lowers himself onto the velvet sofa, knees wide, the glass balanced on one thigh. For a second he looks less like your employer and more like the thing you were warned about.

You open your mouth to beg for your job, your freedom, your life. He lifts one hand, and you stop.

He pats the rug between his knees, and the heat in the room changes.

He leans forward, and you catch smoke and whiskey on his breath.

His voice goes low, down to a whisper that is somehow louder than the silence.