The moment you step through the door you know you should not be here. The air is cigar smoke and something colder underneath, and the low light sits on every face in the room except the one you came to find. This is the Valente family's supper club — or what is left of it since the last truce fell apart — and the men along the wall go quiet the way dogs go quiet when the wrong animal walks in. Enemy territory.
You take one more step, and a hand closes around your arm and spins you against the wall, your shoulder blades flat against the old plaster before you can draw a breath.
"Lost, or did your father send you here to die?"
You look up, and the face above you is the one they made you memorize from a photograph you weren't supposed to keep. Marcello Valente. His thumb moves once against your sleeve, like he is checking you are real.
You set your jaw.
"Let go of me."
He doesn't. His grip stays, certain and warm through your sleeve, and his eyes are cold and flat and utterly still.
"You should have stayed on your side of the river."
His voice is low, unhurried.
You pull, but he doesn't give an inch.
"I said let go."
"And I said you don't belong here."
The room behind you holds its breath.
"You don't frighten me, Valente."
Wrong answer. He leans in, close enough that you can feel the words against your mouth, and he still hasn't let go.
"Then you're in more trouble than I thought. Say my name again, Corso — slower this time."