Simone looks mildly alarmed, but her years of social training haven’t deserted her. She looks up at me as if really examining my features for the first time.

“He’s not so bad,” she says. “Not if you squint.”

Tony laughs. “Squint a lot in there—you won’t notice the holes in the carpet, either.”

He lets us pass into the speakeasy.

The Room is a private club with only three hundred members. Papa and I are two of them. The rest are some of the most old-school Italian, Irish, and Russian gangsters in the city. And by old-school, I mean very old—I’m probably the youngest member by ten years at least.

That’s why I’m not worried about bringing Simone here. She’s more likely to witness a coronary than a shoot-out.

Plus, I figured she’d dig the vibe. It’s a tiny space, dark as night since we’re underground, except for the low light of the shaded lamps on the table, and the green neon sign over the bar. There’s plush crimson chairs, faded carpets, ancient wallpaper, and a solid wall of dark, dusty liquor bottles that really might have been here since Prohibition.

The waiters are about a hundred years old, too. They shuffle around in their white dress shirts and long black aprons, never spilling a drop of a drink.

Carmine comes to our table, giving me a friendly nod and Simone a little bow.

“What can I get you?” he rasps.

“Let’s do the sampler,” I say before Simone can answer.

“Thanks,” she says, as Carmine totters back to the bar. “I didn’t have a clue what to say. I’ve mostly only drunk champagne or wine. Plus a few mimosas. My parents aren’t big drinkers, but you know wine is hardly considered alcohol in Europe.”

“It’s mother’s milk for Italians,” I say.

Carmine comes back a few minutes later with a tray loaded with eight miniature cocktails, plus a wooden board bearing marinated olives, house-made pickles, nuts, dried fruit, and a couple kinds of cheese.

“Is all that for us?” Simone squeaks.

“These are historic-era cocktails,” Carmine explains patiently. “Just a little sample of each. Here you got The Bee’s Knees—a little honey and lemon in your gin. Then the Mary Pickford—that’s Cuban rum, pineapple, and a touch of grenadine to give you that lovely pink color. I’m sure you’ve had a Sidecar before—brandy sour with cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon. And finally, the classic Chicago Fizz—a little dark rum, ruby port, egg white, lemon, and club soda.”

He sets the miniature cocktails down in a row in front of Simone as he names each one.

“Cheers,” I say, picking up the Chicago Fizz. Simone gingerly holds up the same. We clink glasses, and she takes a sip.

“Not bad,” she says.

She has a foam mustache above her lip. It makes her look even more like a little cat. I can’t help smiling.

“What?” she says, smiling back at me.

“Nothing,” I say.

She starts to giggle.

“Why are you laughing?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the bar. I’ve got a mustache too.

We’re both laughing, so much that the men at the other tables give us disapproving looks.

I wipe my face with a napkin, then hers, gently.

“You were never gonna tell me, were you?” I ask her.

“No,” Simone snorts.

I put my hand over hers, on the tabletop. Her hand is slim and perfectly shaped. It makes mine look like a baseball mitt by comparison.

The jukebox in the corner switches records. Even though it’s a 20’s style speakeasy, most of the music that plays is actually from the 60s or 70s, since that’s the “good old days” for most of the patrons.

“Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash begins to play.

“Dance with me,” I say to Simone.

“Nobody’s dancing,” she says.

“We are,” I say, pulling her up from the table.

I’m a shit dancer. I already know that.

It doesn’t matter. I just want to hold Simone against my chest. Nobody cares that we’re dancing. They give us a glance, then return to their conversations.

I can smell the sweet, clean scent of Simone’s hair. She knows exactly how to move.

“Ring of Fire” — Johnny Cash (Spotify)

“Ring of Fire” — Johnny Cash (Apple Music)

After a few more songs, we sit down at our little table again. We try all the drinks, as well as the food. Simone is flushed from the liquor. Her cheeks turn pink and she gets more talkative than ever. She asks me all kinds of questions.

I haven’t drunk much, but I feel intoxicated by the sight of her. By the color in her face and the brightness of her eyes. They alter, depending on the light. Sometimes they’re clear and golden like honey. Here, in lower light, they look as orange as amber.

“Are you . . . a mafioso?” Simone whispers, not wanting anyone else to hear.

“I guess.” I shrug. “It’s not like a gang you join. It’s a family business.”

“What do you mean?” Simone asks. She looks genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Well . . .” I try to think how to explain it. “Like all businesses, there’s the deals you run above board, and the ones that exploit the loopholes. There’s the laws you follow and the ones you don’t, because fuck the people who made those laws—they’re just as dirty, and they exploit them just the same for money and power.”

I try to think how to phrase this without insulting her.

“Your father—he makes deals, he calls in favors. He has his friends and his enemies. My father’s the same.”

“I suppose,” Simone says, toying with the glass of her Sidecar. “It’s not only back-door business deals, though, is it?”

She looks up at me, not wanting to offend me with the question, but wanting to know the truth.

“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”

Nero and I knocked over two armored trucks in Canaryville just last month. I’m not above any kind of crime, not really.

I don’t give a fuck about stealing from a bank. Banks, governments, businesses—you show me one that’s truly clean. It’s all a system to shuffle money around, and I have as much right to siphon off a few thousand as any fat cat banker.

I wouldn’t hurt somebody for fun. But when there’s a reason . . . I don’t hesitate.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Simone asks, so quietly that I can barely hear her over the music.

I feel my jaw clench involuntarily. I killed someone the night we met. And that wasn’t the first time.

“What do you think?” I ask Simone.

She bites her lip, unable to answer. Or unwilling.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

We get back into the Bronco. I drive east, over to Lakeshore Drive. I’ve got the windows down, and the cool night air streams through.

Simone looks a little sleepy, because it’s getting late, or because she’s not used to the drinks. I pull her head down onto my lap, so she’s closer and she can rest.

She lays there, with her hand on my thigh.