Chapter 2
Vincent Calvino walked in without making much of a sound.
He was wearing a dark gray cashmere coat that still carried the scent of the cold outdoor air. He sat down behind the desk, took off his gloves, poured himself a glass of amber-colored liquor, and looked up at Alessandro.
His eyes were dark brown. They were so dark that the boundary between the pupil and the iris was almost indistinguishable.
But what made the deepest impression on Alessandro was not their color but their warmth. There was no hostility, no scrutiny, and no unnecessary emotion.
They simply observed him quietly and thoroughly, like a precision optical instrument dissecting, categorizing, and cataloging every detail about him.
"From Chicago?" Vincent spoke up. His voice was deeper than Alessandro had expected, carrying a measured, unhurried composure as if every word had been weighed three times before leaving his lips.
"Yes."
“Who did you work for?”
"Marcello's crew. South Side.”
Vincent picked up his glass, but he didn't drink. He simply held it up to the light and slowly swirled it, watching the amber liquid flow back and forth along the sides of the glass. “Marcello was taken down by the feds two years ago. How did you get out?”
“Luck,” Alessandro said. He’d rehearsed this answer over and over again beforehand.
He knew that too many explanations in a conversation like this would only arouse suspicion. "I wasn't there the day they raided him. By the time I heard the rumors, it was already too late. I took whatever money I could get my hands on, hopped on a Greyhound bus, and headed east.”
“Why New Haven?”
"I heard the Calvino family was hiring."
Vincent set his glass down, its base making a faint clink against the tabletop. He tilted his head slightly, and for the first time, a hint of warmth flickered in his dark brown eyes—not kindness, but a kind of piqued interest.
"You're quite bold," he said. “No one dares to walk right into my territory, declare themselves a fugitive, and then ask for a way out.
“I had no other choice.”
Vincent didn’t answer right away. He slowly traced the rim of his glass with his finger, never taking his gaze off Alessandro’s face.
It wasn’t a fierce gaze, nor could it be called scrutinizing. It was more like a quiet weighing. It was as if he were saying, "I’ve seen countless people. I know the worth of each one. Now, I’m going to weigh yours."
A long silence followed.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled faintly, and the heating pipes deep within the walls sighed lowly. Faint music drifted in from the nightclub’s main hall—an old-fashioned Italian folk song. The singer crooned in the Sicilian dialect about the sea and parting.
"Joey," Vincent said suddenly. His voice wasn't loud, but the door was immediately pushed open from the outside. The stocky Joey appeared in the doorway.
"Take Costa to that apartment in the East End and give him a key. Have him go to the docks with Marco tomorrow morning and start at the very bottom." Vincent's gaze returned to Alessandro, and the corners of his mouth curved ever so slightly.
"You ran away from Chicago. You should know full well what happens to those who betray me.”
"I know," Alessandro said.
"No," Vincent said softly. "You don't."
He stood up, picked up his coat, and walked toward the door.
As he passed Alessandro, he paused for a moment, close enough for Alessandro to smell the cedar scent mingling with the cold air on his body. Something flashed in his eyes—too quickly for Alessandro to make out.
"But you will know."
He walked out the door. His footsteps faded into the distance down the hallway. Joey tilted his head, motioning for Alessandro to follow.
Alessandro stood up and walked out of the office. As he crossed the nightclub’s lobby, he saw them.
Two women were sitting in a booth in the corner.
One had dark hair, a thick braid hanging over her shoulder, and a barely touched glass of dark liquor set before her.
She sat very upright, not as if she were relaxing, but more like a knife temporarily sheathed. Her eyes were fixed on something only she could see in the empty space ahead, not on the dance floor or the bar.
The other woman sat right next to her, very close. She had short hair, light-colored eyes, and freckles. Instead of drinking, she peeled an apple with a small knife. Her technique was unique—the blade always faced outward, and each slice was thin and even. The peel hung between her fingers like a single, unbroken red ribbon.
Suddenly, the woman with short hair looked up, her gaze sweeping past the bustling hall and landing squarely on Alessandro.
Their gazes met in the murky air. Her eyes were a pale gray-green, the color of the sea in winter. She stared at him for two seconds—long enough to make Alessandro feel a tightness in the back of his neck. Then, as if their brief eye contact had never happened, she looked away, lowered her head, and continued peeling her apple.
The dark-haired woman never looked at him.
Alessandro followed Joey out of the nightclub.
The cold February wind hit him in the face. Walking half a step behind Joey, he watched his exhaled breath tear apart in the wind. In his mind, he replayed the image of the short-haired woman peeling the apple—the blade facing outward, each cut precise and restrained—the apple peel hanging between her fingers, never breaking.
She was showing him something. Not a threat. But—it took him a long time to find the word—it was affirmation. She had acknowledged his existence and then filed him away, just as Vincent had done.
That was the first time he met Elena Martini and Rosa Valente.
It was also the first time he realized that the criteria for judging whether a person was dangerous in this world were completely different from what he’d learned at the police academy.
