Chapter 5

The basement was as quiet as a tomb. The sound of water in the heating pipes had vanished. Even the sound of breathing had ceased.

Rosa laughed.

She walked from the wall to the other side of Alessandro and looked down at his palm. She was so close that he could smell the faint scent of soap on her, reminiscent of the cheapest laundry detergent found in a public laundromat.

"Debt collectors from Chicago often use guns," Rosa said. Her voice was softer and faster than Elena’s, with a kind of nervous rhythm to it. "That's not strange. What’s strange is—”

Suddenly, her finger tapped the web between his right thumb and index finger, her nail gently scraping the skin there. "There's a callus here, too. It’s from holding a pen.”

She sat up straight and looked at Vincent.

"A desperate debt collector—he uses a gun, but he also often holds a pen. What does he write? Bills? Love letters? Or—" She tilted her head. "Reports?"

As she said the last two words, Alessandro felt his heart clench in his chest.

But his face betrayed nothing.

"I used to keep the books for Marcello," he said, his voice so steady that it surprised him. "None of his men could read or write. I went to school for a few years.”

A long silence followed.

Then Vincent nodded. It was just a tiny movement—his chin dipped slightly, then rose again. But the atmosphere of the entire room changed in that instant. It was as if a string that had been stretched too tight for too long had finally been loosened slightly.

"You may go," Vincent said to Elena and Rosa.

Elena made no unnecessary movements.

She stood up directly from the table and walked toward the door. As she passed Alessandro, she didn't falter or look at him. Rosa followed behind her, but her pace slowed for a moment as she passed Alessandro.

"Your hand is trembling," she whispered.

Alessandro glanced down at his hands. No, his hands lay steady on the tabletop, not moving at all.

He looked up and saw that Rosa had already reached the doorway.

But she glanced back at him. There was something in her gaze—a hint of something, like a kind of confirmation. It was just like the look she’d given him when she was peeling apples at the Bay Nightclub. She was acknowledging his existence. She was confirming that he was someone worth remembering.

The door closed.

Only Vincent and Alessandro remained in the basement.

“Tell me something,” Vincent said suddenly. He leaned forward slightly, revealing a small patch of collarbone beneath his shirt collar. Above it was an old scar—thin and shallow, like a faded line. "Why did you come here?"

Alessandro had long since prepared his answer to this question. Chicago, Marcello, the escape, being cornered—he’d rehearsed the entire story at least a hundred times, crafting every detail to withstand scrutiny.

But what Vincent said next rendered all his prepared answers meaningless.

"Don't recite what you've memorized," Vincent said softly, so softly it sounded like he was talking to himself.

"You're a smart man. Of course you've prepared all your answers. I don’t want to hear any of that. What I want to know is—why did you come here?”

The flames in the fireplace crackled softly.

In a corner of the basement, an old water pipe let out a muffled sigh. In that instant, Alessandro almost blurted out the truth, not because he wanted to but because those eyes made him feel as though he had nothing to hide.

But he didn’t.

"Because I have nowhere to go back to," he said.

His voice was softer than he’d expected. Not because he was acting, but because, on some level, those words were truer than he was willing to admit.

"I lost everything in Chicago. My boss is in prison, and everyone I knew is either dead or on the run. I could find a legitimate job in another city—carrying bricks on a construction site or washing dishes at a restaurant—but I can’t do that. I’m not that kind of person.”

He paused and took a breath.

"So I came here. This is the only way I know how to survive.”

Vincent was silent for a long time.

Then, he did something Alessandro hadn’t expected at all.

He smiled.

It wasn’t a sneer nor a test. It was a very light smile—one that could almost be called gentle. It lasted less than two seconds before fading away like ripples left by a breeze skimming the water’s surface. But it had definitely been there.

“You’re more honest than you think,” Vincent said. “At least you’re more honest than Marco said you were.”

He stood up, walked around the table, and approached Alessandro. He was so close that Alessandro could make out the fine weave of his shirt and smell the cedar and red wine scent on his body.

"Starting tomorrow, you don't have to go to the docks anymore," Vincent said. “Come with me.”

Alessandro looked up.

"You'll do whatever I tell you to do. You’ll go wherever I tell you to. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for me. Can you do that?"

“Yes.”

“Good.” Vincent took a step back and returned to his seat across the table.

He took a key out of the drawer and slid it across the tabletop. The key made a soft, drawn-out sound as it glided over the wooden surface.

"27 Third Street, North District, second floor. It’s a bit nicer than where you’re living now. Meet me at the back door at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

Alejandro picked up the key. The metal was still cool from the tabletop.

“Vincent,” he called out to him, as he was heading toward the door.

Vincent stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around.

"Why me?"

He turned his head slightly, and his face, half-illuminated by the fireplace, appeared strikingly chiseled. He didn’t answer directly. He simply said two words.

“Intuition.”

He walked out the door. His footsteps gradually faded down the hallway.

Alessandro remained seated, clutching the key. Its serrations pricked his palm. His heartbeat hadn’t yet settled. He recalled what Rosa had whispered in his ear: "Your hands are shaking." His hands weren’t actually shaking. But she wasn’t talking about his hands.

She was talking about something inside him that was trembling.

And she had seen it.