The taxi pulled up to Club Octana, its neon sign bathing the street in electric blue. Santino stepped out, adjusting his leather jacket, the only good thing he owned. Naples streets had taught him to blend in. Here, he stood out like a stray dog at a thoroughbred show.
"ID." The doorman blocked his path, a mountain in a black suit.
Santino handed over the fake passport Salvatore had sent. I'm expected.
The doorman's eyes flicked between the ID and Santino's face. "Wait here."
The night air carried perfume and cigarette smoke as couples in designer clothes laughed their way past the velvet rope. Santino counted two exits visible, probably a back door through the kitchen. Old habits.
The doorman returned with a nod. "Follow me."
Inside, the bass pulsed through Santino's chest like a se
