The study is the last room in the house with a light on, and you are the last person in it besides the Don. Augusto Sorrentino is in the wing chair with his black suit buttoned, a glass of whiskey at his knee and another man's whole future spread on the table between you.
"Sit,"
he says, and it is not a request.
"You've been in this house three nights and you still haven't asked me what happens to the accountant when the books are done."
He turns the signet ring on his finger, once, and the lamplight catches the silver at his temples.
"Ask it now. I'd rather you asked me than guessed."
The harbor wind rattles the glass in its frame, and he waits, still as a man who has already heard your answer.