He walked inside with such calmness that I'd have been forced to believe that he didn't know who I was. His hands were neatly tucked in his pants pocket and he didn't seem perturbed in the least way.
He wore denim pants and an unbuttoned denim jacket over a crisp white shirt.
"Is this Elan Art Gallery?" He asked as he stood in front of me.
"Yes," I responded. Although I knew it was quite impossible for anyone to walk in here without seeing the broad signpost with the name Elan Art Gallery boldly inscribed.
How was he able to keep it so chill while my legs were behaving like they were made of water?
"Interesting. It means I'm at the right place." I noticed his Italian accent as he spoke. It was different from the accent I heard while at the clubhouse and at his own house.
He didn't act like he knew me. Perhaps he was Mr. Dom's doppelganger, a twin or some other relative.
