Vivian talked for forty-seven minutes.
I didn't interrupt her once. Not because I was being polite. Because every sentence she said rearranged the architecture of what I thought I knew about Vito D'Angelo, and interrupting her would have been like stopping a surgeon mid-incision to ask about the weather.
She told me about the facility.
Not the company campus. Not the glass tower downtown where executives sipped espresso and congratulated themselves on quarterly earnings. The other one. The one that didn't appear on any corporate filing or zoning document. A building on the eastern edge of Century City near the industrial port where Angelo Corp maintained a warehouse district that generated exactly enough revenue to justify its existence on paper and not a cent more.
