"We do business," Paulie says, his grin gone now.
"What kind of business?"
"Various kinds."
"That's vague." I tilt my head, considering. "Have any of you ever killed anyone? What's that like? Is it as hard as they make it seem in films? Do you feel bad afterward, or does it get easier with practice?"
"Okay." Santino grabs my arm, his grip firm. "That's definitely enough."
"What? I'm just asking questions!"
"You're asking completely inappropriate questions about illegal activities."
"But we're all family! Right?" I look at the crew, spreading my hands. "You don't mind, do you? I'm just trying to understand Santo's world."
"We mind," Bruno says diplomatically, though his expression suggests he's reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
"Oh, well. Sorry then." I don't sound sorry at all. "I'm just trying to understand Santino's world. He never tells meanything. Says I shouldn't worry my pretty little head about business matters."
"I never said that," Santino protests.
"You implied it." I pull free from his grip and start wandering around the room, examining everything. "This is a nice space. Do you ever worry about the carbon footprint of all this leather furniture? Cows produce a lot of methane, you know."
"We don't worry about carbon footprints," Paulie mutters.
"Maybe you should. Climate change affects everyone. Even the mafia. Rising sea levels could impact your port operations, couldn't they? If everything was washed away?"
"We don't call it the mafia," Tommy says, his voice carrying an edge now.
"What do you call it then? The family business? The organization? The syndicate?"
"We call it business," Sal says firmly.
"Right. Business." I nod seriously, as if I'm taking mental notes. "And this business involves what exactly? Because I'd really like to understand the details of—"
"Liana, stop talking." Santino's voice has a dangerous edge now, the kind that probably makes grown men nervous.
"I'm just trying to learn about your work! Is that so wrong?"
"Learn somewhere else. Anywhere else."
I pout, playing the wounded party. "You're no fun."
I move closer and that's when I see it—the slight bulge at the small of his back under his jacket. Another gun. Of course he'd carry one on his body too.
Before anyone can react or stop me, I reach around him and pull the gun from his waistband in one smooth motion.
"Oh my God, you carry one too!" I hold it up, examining it like it's a fascinating artifact. "This is so cool! Can I keep it?"
The entire room freezes. Time seems to stop.
"Liana." Santino's voice is very calm now, the kind of calm that's actually terrifying. Dangerously calm. "Put that down. Right now."
"I just want to look at it." I turn it over in my hands, feeling the weight. Is the safety on? Where is it?” I can feel the lever, but they don't know that. "It's heavier than I expected. What kind is it? A Glock? A Beretta?"
"Give me the gun. Now."
"In a second. How does it work? You just pull this trigger?" I point it at the ceiling, squinting like I'm aiming.
