The freight lift opens on the ninth floor at twenty to two and the first thing through the door is bass, then a laugh, then paper being counted. The corridor smells of hairspray, leather and lemons. Your duffel sits on the lift floor behind you.

The door of the flat is propped open with a folding chair. Your father texted you the eighth floor. It is the ninth, and the chair says somebody has been watching the lift.

a voice says from the red banquette, flat, not unkind.

That is Imre Kastellan, your stepbrother, at the end of the velvet sofa with a rubber band around two fingers and a stack of tens on his knee. Bare chest, black leather harness unbuckled and hanging off both shoulders, black leather trousers. Ink climbs his throat and spreads across his chest and ribs, and three silver rings catch the light across his knuckles. He does not get up.

On the floor by the table, a man with wet-looking black hair leans back on both hands and looks you over like a new number on the board.

Dushan Nazarenko says.

Tarik Zakarian says from the kitchen doorway, drying a glass with a bar towel. Dark hair curls at his jaw, a small silver cross hangs over his bare chest, and he is smiling at you like a story he has already decided to enjoy.

Behind the sofa a very large, very quiet man sets a truss pin down and says one sentence.

Ulf Bergman says, and goes back to his toolbox.

Imre stands, crosses the room, takes the duffel off the lift with one hand and drops it inside the third door. Then he comes back, picks the money up off the table and holds a folded envelope out to you.

He waits until you take it.