The younger guy, Dolmio, grins at me. “You’re eighteen.”

“I am.” I hold out my right hand. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.” He holds out his left hand and the two of us stare at each other. But when I withdraw my right hand and hold out my left, he changes hands too, leaving us unable to shake again.

“Christ,” Harvey mutters, elbowing Dolmio to one side. “Just go back to the security room, okay?”

“Okay,” Dolmio agrees. He leaves the room, whacking his shoulder on the doorframe.

“Sorry,” Harvey says to me. “He’s a family friend and he’s still in training.”

“It’s fine. He seems nice.”

“Hmm. Anyway, have you decided what you’d like to do today?”

“Could I maybe… call my sister?”

Schnee’s heavy eyebrows lift. “No.”

“Okay, well…” I mentally scan the options Harvey suggested but I don’t feel like doing any of them. My gaze falls on a velvet chair stacked high with pizza boxes. “Could I maybe… clean up?”

The men exchange uncomfortable looks.

“That’s sweet of you, Miss,” Harvey says slowly. “But I’m sure that’s not what Mr. Morelli had in mind.”

“I know, but I’d like to feel useful.” And if it convinces the others to be nicer to me and possibly not kill me or send me to Italy, that would be a bonus.

Harvey looks at Schnee who shrugs, wiping his nose again. I really wish we hadn’t shaken hands.

“I suppose there’s no harm…?” He tells Harvey.

I beam at them. “Amazing! Do you have any cleaning supplies?”

Schnee shows me to a small closet full of rubber gloves and leaking bottles of cream cleanser.

“Do you… want a hand?” he asks.

“Not at all.”

“Great, I’m allergic to dust.” He swipes a hand over his runny nose. “Okay, well there’s an intercom in every room. Press the middle if you need us.”

“Sure.”

He’s halfway out the door when he turns. “If any of the bosses ask why you’re cleaning, make sure you tell them it was your idea.”

I frown. “I don’t think any of them care what I do.”

Schnee gives me a long look. “You’re wrong.”

Before I can ask what he means, he vanishes.

The kitchen is gross, but it’s also empty. There’s nothing on the shelves or in the industrial refrigerators except wine, condiments, and a six-pack of orange soda.

Glad I don’t have to throw anything out, I pile all the dishes from the kitchen and dining room next to the sink and fill it with hot soapy water. As I scrub, I run through my scales, up and down and back again. I like cleaning. I always tried to help Zia Teresa at home, but she didn’t want to look lazy in front of mom. And if I so much as took an empty carton to the recycling bin, mom would scold me.

Here I can take as long as I want and focus on getting the—peanut butter?—stains off the plates. When the dishes are done, I wipe down the stainless-steel counter tops, until they gleam silver again. I sing Dolly Parton as I go. I’m digging the ancient mop and bucket out of the closet when Harvey sticks his head through the door. “Are you hungry, Miss? I can run out and get you something? Anything you’d like.”