Sicilia, Italy.
The bulb swung faintly above them. Its dim light cut shadows across the cracked plaster walls. The room smelled of stale smoke, whiskey and something older and daring. Something metallic buried deep in the stones of the room.
Grigor sat slouched in his chair. He had a cigarette balanced between two fingers. His gray hair fell slightly into his face, though his eyes were alert, sharp, never still.
He didn't look at the smoke curling up from his lips; he looked at Carlos, who stood rigid, boots tapping against the stone floor with an impatience he could not hide.
"You invited me all the way down here to Italy," Grigor said, exhaling slowly, as though time bent to his leisure. His Russian accent scraped through the air, low and measured. "So. How can I help you?"
