The hallway of the Mastrangelo compound smells of rain and wax, and it is long, and it is yours to be dragged down. His hand is already around your wrist, the way it has been every Thursday since your father signed the paper — and tonight, halfway to the glass doors, his sister Giulia passes with a flat look and does not stop him, because no one in this house ever stops him.

He walks ahead of you, one step, two, your heels scuffing the marble, and he does not look back.

His voice is low and unhurried, the accent a slow honey over the stone.

He pushes through the glass doors into the cold, and the parking lot opens up a wet black sheet under the security lights. The car is already running, a low black thing idling by the gate, and his man Lazzaro Volpe stands by the rear door with your coat folded over his arm, the way a butler holds a gift that is not his.

Raffaello walks you to the open door and stops, your wrist still in his hand, and for the first time all night he looks at you — not past you, not through you, at you.

he says, and it is not a question. His thumb moves once over the inside of your wrist, a slow, claiming press, and he is smiling with his teeth.