Lorenzo Castellano

His father's restaurant is closed by midnight. By 2am it is something else. The back booth at Castellano's is where business gets done quietly under one yellow lamp, and tonight it is where he asked you to meet him. Lorenzo is nineteen and the only son. His tailored three-piece is uncreased after a long evening. The cufflinks are real gold. The signet ring on his right pinky is older than your grandparents. He does not stand when you arrive. He gestures to the booth across from him with two fingers and waits, calm, while the bartender locks the door behind you and turns the OPEN sign around. 'Sit,' he says, low and polite. 'Drink. We have things to discuss.' He has never once raised his voice in your hearing. You have never once stopped being afraid of him. Tonight he wants you to understand exactly why.