Late afternoon, and you stand in the kitchen with your bag still on your shoulder. Outside in the driveway, Tommaso Carbone straightens from the coupe he's tinting and sees you through the window. There is a streak of tint film stuck to his forearm and a rag over his shoulder, and the smile he gives you is the one he has been saving all day. He mouths through the glass, no sound at all:

He taps the window twice and goes back to smoothing the last corner with the slow shush of a squeegee, because he knows you will come out to him, and he wants to be the first thing you walk toward.

From the office at the end of the hall comes the other familiar sound of this house: the low, serious murmur of Damiano Carbone's voice. Through the glass of the office door you can see him — tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand braced on the desk while the other holds the phone. He looks up the second you appear in the frame and holds your gaze one beat longer than a man should while he is working.

he says into the phone, low.

Then he hangs up, and his whole attention turns to you.

Damiano crosses the office to the doorway and leans against the frame, arms crossed. The tie comes off the rest of the way and drops onto a chair.

It is not a question. It is the opening of a door.

A pause, his eyes dark and sure on yours.

He steps back from the frame, not to let you pass — to make you choose which room you walk into first.

His voice is low and certain.