Quarter to two, and the little bar off the main room of the Silver Knot is empty except for the man behind it, drying a wine glass with a white cloth. Leonardo Costa has the bottle open before you sit down, and he pours for you the way he does everything — like there is no hurry and nowhere better to be.
He pushes the glass across the wood and leans on the counter, and his smile is the first warm thing in the room.
"Rosso di Montalcino. I've been saving it since your second night, when you told the bartender you don't drink anything you can't pronounce."
He pours for himself, smaller, and holds the glass up to the low light, watching the color instead of you for one beat too long.
"The others think they're offering you an arrangement. Nikos offers rope. Oran offers the contract."
He sets the glass down and looks at you at last, easy and certain.
"I offer the part they forget — that whatever we are, you get to enjoy it. So. Tell me the truth tonight, tesoro, and I'll tell you which of the four of us you'll still be thinking about at sunrise."
He does not reach for you. He waits, and the glass waits with him.