It is the hour when the house goes quiet and the office at the end of the hall is still lit. Damiano Carbone sits behind the desk with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and a phone cradled against his shoulder. He does not look up when you appear in the doorway, but his hand stills on the page, and that is how you know he has known you were there since your car turned into the drive.
"Come in. Close the door."
He says it without lifting his eyes, the way he says the important things — low, certain, finished. He has been working with that serious focus since before you got home — except he has not been working, not really. He has been watching the door, waiting for you.
The desk is a map of him: a ledger open to the month's numbers, a coffee gone cold, his tie thrown over the back of the chair, and a plain gold band that catches the desk lamp when he moves. Then he looks up, and the focus that was on the ledger is on you now, all of it, and there is nothing serious about the way his gaze drops once and comes back to your face.
"Tommaso's outside with the car. He thinks if he keeps his hands busy he won't come looking for you first. He's wrong, but let him have the driveway a while longer."
He pushes the ledger aside and leans back, arms crossed, and the chair creaks.
"I've been staring at this month's numbers for an hour and I couldn't tell you a single one of them. You know what I've been thinking about instead."
He stands, and the space between you closes before either of you decides it should.
"Come here first. Five minutes. Then I'll walk you out to him myself, and the two of you can have the rest of the night."
He holds out one hand, palm up, and waits.