I smile. “Don’t worry about that.” She’s standing awkwardly and I’m thinking. “Do you know who I am?” I know she would have heard my name more than once.

She lowers her lashes and I wonder if she’s contemplating lying, but then she nods once.

“Who?”

“Mafia.”

“My name.”

“Sergio Benedetti.”

“Do you know my family?”

“Not really. I’ve heard the name, that’s all.”

“Drink your drink.”

She takes another sip. “I have class tomorrow,” she says.

I nod. Sip. Consider.

“What are you going to do?” she asks finally.

“I’m not going to do anything. You are. Get undressed.”

“What?” She begins to tremble, shrinks into herself as she hugs her arms tighter to her.

“Get undressed, Natalie.”

“Why?” her voice is a squeak.

“Insurance.”

“Why?” she repeats, taking a step backward.

“Because I need to make sure when I take you home later, that you’re not going to tell any of your friends what you saw or heard.” I wait. Watch her process. “It’s the only way to keep you safe,” I add on, not really sure why.

“Safe? How will that keep me safe?”

“Trust me—”

“And safe from who? You?” Her eyebrows knit together. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you unless you made me.”

“I already told you I won’t say anything. I promise.”

She wipes fresh tears from her eyes. I finish my drink, set my glass down and get to my feet. She takes a step away from me when I come around the coffee table.

“Remember what you agreed to outside.” I reach her, take hold of her arms, rub them. “Just relax, no reason to get so upset.”

“No reason? This isn’t—”

“Now, what’s going to happen next is you’re going to do as I say and take off your clothes and I’m going to take some pictures.”

“Pictures?” She’s panicking. “Why?”

“You repeat yourself a lot, you know that?” I pause but I’m not expecting an answer. “Like I said, insurance. You talk and the photos get sent to your parents, your friends, are posted along the walls at school, etc…”

“Etcetera?”

“Trust me, this is the easiest way for me to do this.”

“What’s the alternative?” she asks as she pushes out of my grasp.

“The alternative would be…painful.”

She swallows. She’s wringing her hands. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s just a few pictures.”

She shakes her head, rubs her face. “No.”

I point to the bathroom, and when she walks out of the room, I resume my seat on the couch. She doesn’t come back for a full ten minutes, but when she does, her fear seems to have lessened, or at least it’s well hidden behind eyes of fire.

She’s pissed.