The coffee shop Dante chose is the kind of place that exists in the margins—wedged between a dry cleaner and a check-cashing joint in Brooklyn, the type of establishment that doesn't ask questions and doesn't keep security cameras. I'm seated in a back booth, my second espresso going cold in front of me, when he finally walks through the door.
Dante looks older than I remember. It's only been a few weeks since our last meeting, but the lines around his eyes seem deeper, carved by exhaustion or worry or both. He's carrying a worn leather messenger bag that's seen better days, and when his eyes find mine across the room, there's something in his expression that makes my stomach clench.
This isn't going to be good news.
He slides into the booth across from me without preamble, without even
