Page 25 of Lorenzo

Mocha’s head lifts from my knee.

I look up, expecting Harold to be back to introduce himself once again. I really have to remember to close my door from now on.

Yet again, a man stands in my hallway, around fifty, broad through the shoulders, with silver threaded through his dark hair.

But he is certainly no Harold, the forgetful, the uncertain.

This man looks as though uncertainty has never been a problem for him.

His suit is dark and expensive, fitted closely across his shoulders. There is no tie, but the open collar does little to make him appear casual. He stands just outside the office with one hand in the pocket of his trousers, taking in the boxes, the crooked sign, Mocha, and finally me.

His attention is intense without being openly rude.

Mocha rises.

The movement is quiet, but the change in him is immediate. One second he is leaning against my chair. The next, he is standing between me and the doorway, alert beneath his vest.

The man’s gaze drops to him.

“He bites?” he asks, a faint Italian accent in his voice.

“Only if you give him a reason.”

One corner of his mouth moves.

Mocha does not share his amusement.

I close the laptop and sit back. “Can I help you?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes return to the temporary sign on the window.

“Donna Costa?”

“Last time I checked.”

He steps into the office.

Mocha shifts with him, maintaining the same distance.

The man notices.

Most people either ignore the warning signs because they are nervous or focus on them so much that they forget there is a person attached to the dog.

This man does neither. He keeps Mocha in his peripheral vision while looking directly at me.

That tells me more than his suit does.

“You’re not open yet,” he says.

“Tomorrow.”

“I need someone today.”

“You may be in luck.”