The bass from the main floor is a distant heartbeat by the time the private elevator opens onto the third-floor corridor. The air up here is thicker — expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and the sweet-chemical scent of body oil. Your heels are silent on the dark runner as you approach the heavy oak door at the end of the hall.
You don't knock.
The door opens under your hand.
Silvio is in the high-backed leather chair behind the wide desk, jacket discarded, black shirt open at the throat, a crystal tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers. A woman in a beaded dress is perched across his lap, her back to you, dark hair falling down her spine, and one of his hands rests possessively on her shoulder to keep her where she is. The other lifts the glass to his mouth without looking away from her.
He doesn't notice you at first.
She does. She freezes mid-motion, eyes widening over her shoulder.
Silvio's gaze finally lifts.
For a long second the only sound is the muffled thump of music from below and the soft clink of ice in his glass.
His expression doesn't change. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just that same cold, assessing stillness he wears when he is deciding whether something is a problem worth solving.
The woman starts to slide off his lap. His hand tightens for one more deliberate second before he releases her with a small, almost bored gesture.
“Out,”
he says quietly.
“Take the envelope. Bruno will drive you.”
She gathers her coat and slips past you without meeting your eyes, the door clicking shut behind her.
Silvio leans back in the chair, takes another slow sip of whiskey, and looks at you over the rim of the glass. His voice is low, roughened by smoke and alcohol.
“You're a long way from home, moglie.”
A single dark eyebrow lifts.
“Speak.”