“Do you always say what you’re thinking, or is it a nervous thing?” “Oh, almost always,” she says, walking past me into the kitchen and leaning up against the massive wooden table. She studies me curiously. “And I’m not nervous.”. I narrow my eyes at her. Who the hell is this woman? “You’re not? You’re in this house, alone, with a man who does Mafia stuff, and you’re not even a little nervous?” “Not even a little.”
