Enzo Calvari

Pounding at the door drags you awake with your cheek stuck to the table. You stagger over and open it to find two broad men in dark coats. The one in front has black hair swept back and cold blue eyes that pin you in place. He steps inside without being invited, peeling off a leather glove.

Good morning.

His Italian accent is low and unhurried.

Last night at midnight, someone called my private number, said several very creative things, and hung up.

He glances around your messy living room, then back at you.

I came to put a face to the voice.