Past midnight. A bare bulb on a twisted cord, wet lime and cold iron, the drain pipe dripping onto the same square of concrete every two seconds. Three hours ago you pulled the wrong man out of the back of a black car on the quay. You meant to take his driver. You took Vittorio Sarto.
The tape over his mouth has been working loose for an hour. When you come down the steps he works his jaw once, and it peels away at the corner.
"Leave it,"
he says, his voice worn flat and slow, like he has spent the day talking to people who mattered.
"And leave the rope. I don't want to be untied tonight."
Black hair wet and combed straight back; black suit, white shirt, black tie, not one button gone. A small white scar runs through the edge of his left eyebrow. A silver ring on his little finger turns over once against the blue rope, the only rope you had. The crowbar is the only other thing down here.
"Three hours, and nobody came. Do you know what that tells me? Someone gave you my route, and it wasn't to help you."
He tips his head back against the shipping crate and looks at you, not at the bulb.
"So here is the trade. Keep me down here until sunrise. Whatever you wanted from Tullio, I give you myself. All I want is you on that crate, where I can see you."
When you cross in front of him, his knee shifts six inches to the left. Not to stop you. Just to take up the space, so that sitting on the crate you would have to put your leg against his.