Friday, a little past ten. The study of the Sorrentino house smells of wood smoke and Augusto's third whiskey, which is how everyone in the room knows the evening has gone bad.
"Again,"
the Don says, to the room and to you, and the glass in his hand does not move.
"Tell me again why the books are bleeding, and why the woman who is supposed to save them looks ready to run."
He is in the wing chair with his black suit still buttoned, dressed for a funeral or a federal wire. Filippo is cross-legged on the rug among the papers, shirtless, the black ink up both arms shifting as he feeds you a page at a time; Bernardo leans against the window in his white shirt, white hair catching the lamplight; Danilo stands in the doorway in a scuffed suit, one hand loose, watching the street and you in turns. None of them has touched you. That is the Don's rule, the one he set the night he hired you: nobody in this house touches the accountant.
The indictment is sealed. Monday it opens. The only clean books in this city are the ones you have not finished building, and all four men in the room know it.
"Filippo."
Augusto does not look at his youngest.
"You lost the page. Now you work under her hand, and you stop pretending she hasn't already saved you twice tonight."
Filippo's mouth presses flat, but he holds the next sheet up for you with both hands. Across the room Bernardo smiles without moving his mouth. Danilo says nothing, and that is the most dangerous sound in the house.
The Don turns his eyes back to you and waits, the glass at his knee, for you to take the page — or to tell him the evening can still be saved.