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“Shut up, Susan,” Matt ordered with a smile.

He crossed the few steps to her, put his hand on her cheek, and tilted her face up to look at him.

Their eyes met, and this time she didn’t avert hers.

She felt his fingers working the buttons of her blouse. Her breasts, because he had unfastened her brassiere, were not restrained by it.

When he put his hand on her breast, then his mouth on her nipple, she heard herself saying, softly and plaintively, “Matt, I have to sit down. Lie down.”

He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where, with one hand, he jerked the cover off the bed. Then he lowered her onto it, and as they looked into each other’s eyes, took off the rest of her clothing.

Mr. Paulo Cassandro, the owner of record of Classic Livery, Inc., and its president, a 185-pound gentleman who stood six feet one inches tall, who had been summoned nevertheless, entered the living room of Mr. Vincenzo Savarese very carefully, and was immediately pleased that he had.

Mr. Pietro Cassandro, who was carried on the books of Classic Livery, Inc., as its vice president, immediately looked up at Paulo and made a gesture indicating that Paulo should wait and say nothing.

Pietro, who was twenty pounds heavier than Paulo, two inches taller, four years older, and equally well-tailored, was not, however, quite as bright. For that reason, Mr. Savarese had some years before decided that Paulo was better equipped to direct Classic Livery and Pietro was better suited to function as a companion, which translated to mean that Pietro served Mr. Savarese as a combination chauffeur, bodyguard, and guardian of Mr. Savarese’s privacy.

Paulo saw why Pietro had held up his hand, fingers extended in a warning to say nothing and wait until Mr. S. was ready for him.

Mr. S. was sitting slumped in a very large, comfortable-appearing armchair, his highly polished shoes resting on its matching footstool. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was moving in time with tape-recorded music being reproduced through a pair of five-foot-tall, four-feet-wide stereophonic loudspeakers.

I know that, Paulo thought with just a little pride. That’s Otello, by whatsisname, Verdi. Giuseppe Verdi. And that’s the part where the dinge offs the broad.

Paulo had three times accompanied Mr. S. to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City to see a performance of the opera. He could see it now in his mind’s eye.

He very carefully backed up to the wall and leaned on it, to wait for Mr. S. to have time for him.

Three minutes later, Mr. Savarese pushed himself away from the cushions of his chair, causing Paulo concern that he might have inadvertently made a noise, distracting Mr. S. from his enjoyment of the opera.

Mr. S. did not seem annoyed with him.

Maybe he turned around to see if I was here yet.

Confirmation of that seemed to come when Mr. S. turned the volume off all the way.

“Pietro, rewind the tape carefully, please, and put it away.”

“You got it, Mr. S.,” Pietro said.

“Thank you for coming, Paulo,” Mr. S. said. “Will you have a glass of wine?”

“That would go nice, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, Mr. S.”

“Get a bottle of wine and some glasses, Pietro, please,” Mr. Savarese said, then motioned Paulo into one of the chairs surrounding an octagonal game table.

“Thank you, Mr. S.,” Paulo said.

“If there had been any activity with the man, you would have told me, Paulo?”

“I had one of the guys ride by there every forty-five minutes, no less than once an hour. Nothing, Mr. S.”

Pietro took a bottle of an Italian Chablis from the sterling-silver cooler where it had been kept ready for Mr. S. in case he wanted a little grappa, opened it, and set it on the table. He added two glasses.

“You’ll have a glass, too, Pietro,” Mr. S. said, “when you have finished with the tape.”

“Thank you, Mr. S.”

Savarese nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Paulo.