“Perfect,” he croons. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Something about Christiano gives me the creeps. It’s hard to know the exact source when there are so many options to choose from. But it’s there in the way he looks at people and his tone of speech. Condescension. Manipulation. Being in his presence leaves me coated in an oily residue that not even a good scrubbing can cleanse away. And now I have to spend my evening clogging my pores with his filth. I shiver from top to bottom the second the front door closes behind him. Christiano’s Tuxedo Park home is on the opposite side of the lake and around a bend so that it can’t be seen from the De Rossi property. It’s traditional compared to his city apartment, but the home isn’t a historic masterpiece like Hardwick
