Chapter 4: Delancey Street

Domenico's house on Delancey Street was narrow and brick and very quiet.

It had a black front door, a staircase, and a courtyard garden at the back, closed in by old walls.

"Your room is across the landing from mine," he said, carrying my duffel bag up the stairs himself. "It has a lock on the inside."

"I noticed."

"You can use it."

"I intend to."

He set the bag down on a wide bed with a white quilt, and the whole room smelled faintly of cedar.

"Rules," I said.

He looked at me.

"You wrote yours on an order slip," I said. "I get mine out loud."

"Go on."

"One. I can stop any time, for any reason, and I don't owe you the reason."

"Agreed."

"Two. You don't lie to me. Not about the Table, not about your family, not about Pippa."

A small pause.

"I won't lie to you," he said.

I noticed the shape of that sentence and let it go.

"Three. I owe you nothing I don't offer."

"You owe me nothing at all," said Domenico. "That's what the paper says."

"The paper says my sister is safe."

"The paper says what I wrote."

"Fine." I folded my arms. "Four. You keep your hands to yourself in public unless the Table is watching."

"And when it's watching?"

"Then you can put one hand on my back."

"One hand."

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