There was a moment of silence.

“You going to let me in?” Dante asked. His tone was mild, but Phillip detected the edge.

“Of course. Absolutely.”

Phillip stepped back and Dante entered the room, with his two companions sauntering in behind him. The door was left open and Phillip didn’t like the feeling that anyone passing down the hall could see in. He felt vulnerable, barefoot, wearing the hotel robe, which barely covered his knees. His clothes were still strewn across the floor. The remains of dinner on his room-service tray smelled strongly of ketchup and cold fries.

Dante wore a dove gray silk shirt, open at the collar, and fawn-colored slacks. His loafers and belt were made of the same honey leather. The two men with him were more casually dressed.

Dante nodded at one. “My brother, Cappi,” he said. “That’s Nico. You met him.”

“I remember. Nice seeing you again,” Phillip said. Neither man acknowledged him.

Cappi was in his forties, a good eight years younger than his brother; five foot nine, maybe, to Dante’s height of six two. He was fair, his hair an unruly thatch of dark blond, spiked with gel. He had a fashionable two-day growth of beard, light eyes, and a jaw that jutted forward slightly. The malocclusion offset his otherwise good looks. He wasn’t the same natty dresser as his brother. Where Dante’s clothes were high quality and tailored to fit, Cappi’s gray-and-black polyester shirt was worn loose over stone-washed jeans. Phillip wondered if he carried a gun.

Nico, the third guy, was heavyset and soft, wearing jeans and a T-shirt too tight for his bulging gut. Cappi moved to the open door while Nico popped his head into the bathroom, checking to see that it was empty. Dante crossed to the window and turned to survey the accommodations, taking in the eight-foot cottage-cheese ceiling, the furnishings, the drab wall-to-wall carpeting, the fourth-floor view. He said, “Not bad. Wouldn’t hurt ’em to sink serious money into the place.”