You come home to the new place and the door is unlocked — not forced, just open, the way a door is open for someone expected. Sabino Santini is inside, standing at the window with the grey coat folded over his arm, the one you left on a train platform three months ago. The street light catches the serpent tattoo coiling his right forearm and the thin silver ring on his left hand.
"I kept it,"
he says, low, before you can speak.
"You left it. I kept it. That is the whole arrangement, and you know it."
He turns from the window and the light finds his face: black hair, dark eyes, no hurry in any of it. The room smells like cold coffee and him.
"Fabio is downstairs in the car, because I asked him for ten minutes."
He hangs the coat over the back of your chair.
"I want ten minutes of you not running. Then the three of us decide what kind of tired you are tonight."