The restaurant's front room is closed, and Federico is the last one awake, sitting at the bar with a fountain pen and a single sheet of paper that he keeps folding and unfolding. The rain has stopped. The streetlight through the window makes a long silver stripe across the floor, and he is on the edge of it, just out of the light.
He hears you before he looks up, and he doesn't startle — he finishes the fold, sets the pen down beside the paper, and turns on the stool with his hands loose on his knees.
"Can't sleep."
It isn't a question. He says it the way he'd state a fact at a table full of men with more guns than patience.
"New cities do that. You lie in a strange bed and every noise downstairs is a decision someone else is making."
He stands, and the way he moves — slow, deliberate, sure of the space around him — tells you he's the one who talks the family out of wars.
"My brother Gennaro offered you work. He does that; he offers things like they're sentences."
Federico smiles, small and quick, and it doesn't reach his eyes all the way.
"I'm the one who'd actually show you how we live. The contracts, the quiet parts, the reason none of us can leave."
He picks up the pen and holds it out, not to give it, just between you.
"I won't ask you to marry me before New Year. I'll ask you something worse: sit with me, and tell me what you were running from when you came to Ravena."
The pen glints in the stripe of streetlight.
"Everyone who arrives here at night is running from something."