CASSIAN
The office smelled exactly the same. It was that heavy blend of old wood and expensive tobacco, a scent that had soaked into the walls over decades. It was a room that had seen men beg for their lives and others give the orders to end them. It never changed, no matter what kind of blood was spilled outside.
Marceli was behind the desk. He didn't look up when I walked in, but I knew he already knew what I'd done. The city was like his own skin; if someone poked it on the outer edge, he felt It instantly.
I didn't sit down. I walked up to the heavy oak desk and dropped the folder right in the center.
"It's signed," I said. "Both sides."
Marceli looked at the paper, then his eyes drifted up to mine. "And Emilio Vincenti," he said. It wasn't a question.
I kept my mouth shut.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch between us. He was a man who took his time deciding how he wanted his face to look before he spoke.
