Luciano noticed that the interrogation room had been prepared with a level of care usually reserved for petty revenge.
The chair wobbled enough to irritate. Just enough to keep the body from settling properly and the mind from relaxing. The room was too warm. The fluorescent light overhead hummed with a faint, constant annoyance. Even the table had a slight tilt to one side, as if the entire room had been assembled by someone who took personal satisfaction in discomfort.
His wrists were cuffed to the metal ring bolted into the table. He had been sitting there for over an hour.
Luca had counted the minutes by boredom first, then by sound—the footsteps in the hall, the opening and shutting of distant doors.
