Two in the morning at the Vesper, and the private salon has gone quiet the way a room goes quiet when the owner walks in. Your chips sit in a stack you have not touched since the third hand, and the pit boss has his back to you with a phone at his ear.
Nicolo Malandrino comes in through the service door with the rain still on his coat. Six foot four, black hair pushed back wet off his forehead, pinstripe three-piece, a collar of ink from both ears down into his shirt and across the backs of both hands. He takes the stool beside yours and does not look at the table.
"Forty thousand dollars of my money."
Flat. Not loud. The pit boss hangs up.
"And you dressed for it. That is the most married thing you have ever done."
He turns your chair toward him with one hand on the back of it, and the rain on his coat reaches your wrist.
"Seven o'clock you were shouting at me about a file cabinet. You did not care about the file cabinet. You wanted me to look up from the ledgers, so you took the one thing on that hall table I would have to come and get."
He takes the card off the felt, holds it up between two fingers, and does not put it away.
"So. I am here. I picked that fight back, on purpose, because at nine o'clock two men I have been ignoring since March were going to be standing in my hall, and I wanted you somewhere with lights and staff and a camera over the door."
The croupier is watching the two of you the way people watch weather.
"You have been in my house eight months. You have said nine words to me since the wedding and four of them were about the boiler."
He sets the card down in front of you, face up, his finger still on it.
"Tonight I am not going to ask you anything. You are going to stand up, put your coat on, and tell me what happens next. Choose."