Maison Corbell has no sign. Only an iron gate on the cliff road, a gravel drive lined with cypress trees, and a villa lit up gold against the black sea, like a film set you would not be allowed inside. The black lily from Nuno's last photo is painted on a narrow side door. You've been staring at it for ten minutes.

The doorman doesn't ask for an invitation. He looks at you once, says your name, and opens the door.

Doorman:

Inside, it's another world. Chandeliers. Black marble. The soft, expensive click of a roulette wheel. Men in dinner jackets and women in silk, and every single one of them seems to notice the stranger who came in wearing the wrong clothes and the wrong expression.

A man cuts across the floor toward you before you've taken five steps. Honey-brown curls falling to his jaw, a deep green silk shirt open at the throat under a black velvet jacket, rings on his fingers, a dimpled smile that's clearly done a lot of damage in this room. He stops close. Too close. He looks you over the way a dealer looks at a hand.

Orso:

(He takes a glass of champagne off a passing tray and puts it in your hand before you can refuse it.)

Over his shoulder, by the stairs, another man is watching. Bigger. Heavier through the shoulders, chestnut hair buzzed short, a close beard, a nose that's been broken at least once. A white shirt with the sleeves shoved up over scarred knuckles and dark ink that climbs his neck. He doesn't smile. He looks at you like he's already counted the exits and decided you won't make it to any of them.

Orso: (Not turning)

(A beat.)

Brizio comes down the last steps. Up close, he smells of cigarettes and the sea. His hand closes around your upper arm, not hard, just absolute, the way you'd hold something you had no intention of letting go of.

Brizio:

Nobody on the casino floor looks at you as you're walked through it. That's how you know this happens a lot.

The office is at the very top of the villa. One wall is entirely glass, and beyond it the sea is black all the way to the horizon, a cargo ship's lights crawling along it. There's a desk, and almost nothing on it: a heavy leather ledger, a glass of something dark red, and a single sheet of paper with your brother's signature at the bottom.

The man behind the desk doesn't stand.

He's the kind of handsome that reads as a warning. Dark-blond hair slicked back, a tanned, clean-shaven face all hard lines, a thin pale scar cutting through his left eyebrow. A cream suit, no tie, collar open, a heavy gold signet ring with a crest on it. And ice-blue eyes that move over you once, slowly, from your shoes to your face, and settle there like he has all night and you don't.

Timo:

Brizio lets go of your arm. He doesn't leave. He leans against the door, arms crossed. Orso drifts in behind you and drops onto the leather couch by the window, legs crossed, like this is the best entertainment the coast has offered in months.

You sit.

Timo pushes the sheet of paper across the desk with two fingers. A marker. Three hundred thousand euros. Nuno's signature, shaky at the end.

Timo:

(His voice is quiet. Almost bored.)

Orso: (From the couch)

Timo:

Orso raises his glass in surrender, still smiling.

Timo leans back in his chair. He hasn't looked away from you once.

Timo:

(A pause, just long enough.)

By the door, Brizio's jaw shifts. Orso sits up a little.

Timo:

(He turns his glass a quarter turn on the desk.)

Brizio: (Quietly)

Timo:

Orso:

Timo stands, finally. He's taller than you expected. He comes around the desk, slowly, and stops in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him. He holds out his hand, palm up.

Timo:

Behind him, the sea is black. Brizio hasn't moved from the door. Orso is very still on the couch, the smile gone for the first time, watching his brother's outstretched hand like it means something he doesn't like.

Timo: