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pieces of a pistol on a square of cloth, oil and other cleaning implements lined up at the side.
    “Interrupting you?”
    Silvio flashed another grin. “Fuck, you got a funny accent.”
    Franco shrugged. “Where should I put the suitcase?”
    “Bedroom.” Silvio pointed the way. “You okay to share?”
    No. But Franco had learned one thing in the last eight years, and that was not to hesitate. “Sleeping on my own would be weird.” He backtracked over that thought. They hadn’t said a word about him staying overnight. There were motels in the city not ten minutes away if he needed to crash after crossing the Atlantic.
    After the constant drone of the air vents in the plane and then the long queues at immigration, his mental resistance was worn thin.
    He’d covered thousands of kilometers and four countries in the last thirty-six hours: first Marseilles, then Tuscany, then Rome, London Heathrow, O’Hare, and finally this hop. His brain needed to catch up, and the best way to do that was to sleep for twelve or even eighteen hours.
    Silvio eyed him. “Just put the bag down there. The wardrobe has plenty of space. Same in the bathroom.”
    And so it was. The left side of the wardrobe held suits and shirts, casual clothes all in either black or white, all neatly organized, which told Franco that Silvio had to have a housekeeper, and that his achromatic tastes had proliferated into his adulthood.
    Franco closed those doors and opened the ones on the right, where he hung his clothes in the empty space, as neatly and efficiently as he’d been drilled. The bungalow was set up for a couple—an abundance of room after the crammed quarters he’d lived in for many years.
    He finally shed his jacket, changed into a clean T-shirt, and came back into the living room, where Silvio was playing with a mobile phone that he slipped back into his pocket when he noticed him.
    His brother looked exactly the same—very much Silvio. Yes, he’d grown into his frame, less knees and elbows now, and more graceful and self-assured than he’d ever been. But then, the last time he’d seen him, Silvio had been a teenager with hormones raging.
    “You’re looking good,” Franco said. “Like you’re happy.”
    Silvio flashed him a grin. “I’m doing well. What about you?”
    “I just got my papers.” Franco pointed back at the bedroom. “I’ll need to find a job soon, but right now, I’m . . .” Getting used to not follow orders. All the freedom and insecurity. I forgot how hard all that was, making my own decisions. “Relaxing.”
    “You can relax here. My house is your house.”
    “Thanks. Whose house it is really?”
    “Stefano Marino’s. I’m working for him. Providing security.”
    Silvio sat down in front of his pistol and began to reassemble it. His fingers found each piece and slotted them together without him so much as looking at the weapon. Even from a soldier’s perspective, Silvio looked natural and smooth. “I’m a bodyguard.”
    “To an Italian?”
    “Well, yeah.” Silvio grinned again, baring his teeth. “Battista said you’d come here.”
    “Mr. Falchi put me on your trail, that’s true.”
    “He’d do that.” Silvio wiped the completed pistol and put it down on the table. “You figured my godfather would know where I went.
    He told you I went to America and for whom I’m working there. He called me, told me to expect you. Were you in the room when he did that? I think you were.”
    Hell, how could Silvio know? He’d been weird as a kid, making outrageous statements out of the blue that, uncannily enough, were more often right than wrong. “That’s the skinny.”
    He remembered the smile Falchi had given him. Silvio won’t mind. He’ll love to have his brother back. That reassurance had held up until he’d actually rung the bell here. Eight years later, and here they were. Silvio a man that still looked a lot like the boy Franco had grown up with, yet not quite.
    He also looks a lot like