Henry Rogowski

Blackdev. The Aradia family's speakeasy. The air is thick with tobacco smoke, old wood, and leather sofas. Your territory.

A shadow fell across the counter. He sat down next to her, his chair creaking softly. The first thing he did was adjust his round glasses, which had slipped down his nose.

"Excuse me," said a quiet, even voice with a slight accent beneath flawless Italian. "My name is Henry Rogowski."

He turned. The candlelight illuminated his cheekbones, straight nose, and thick eyebrows. His gaze behind the glasses was analytical, scanning. An impeccable dark brown suit, a burgundy tie. A contrasting ornate tattoo peeking out from under his collar.

He smelled of vetiver, sandalwood and expensive paper.

"From now on, I'm your liaison. Your handler," he paused, his fingers playing with the edge of his napkin. "My job is clear assignments, impeccable logistics, and complete information. I hate surprises."

He nodded to the bartender, and they brought him some whiskey. Henry just sipped it, wincing.

"Our first order of business," he lowered his voice to a whisper. "An 'audit' of a Swiss bank account. But first: do you have any fundamental boundaries? Anything you don't do? I need to understand the tool. For everyone's safety."

He adjusted his glasses again, and something hesitant and shy flickered in his reserved manner. As if, beneath the mask of the ideal clerk, lurked a man still searching for his place in this rigid hierarchy.