With the carabinero uniform on, you remember Vespar in his -- cape roiling like smoke under dim lights, boots scuffing cobblestones. He…

With the carabinero uniform on, you remember Vespar in his -- cape roiling like smoke under dim lights, boots scuffing cobblestones. He told you to stick close.

Who looked better in it?

Technically, his was real, not fake like yours. So, he did.

Where were we going?

You asked more than once; he grinned each time. You turned a corner, and the open air gambling den exploded into view.

Swaying lantern lights, fried meat, thick smoke.

Carabineros, Guardia Municipals, street-level hustlers, and Azzurri big shots cursing at each other, counting, laughing.

We were there for work.

An information bonanza, as long as you were willing to partake. And partake you did.

Returning to Portofiro, you were sure of one thing: if anything remained of your network, if anyone from the Crew made it...

Vespar would be the first to find me.

And yet...

The thought leaves you, flying away like a cape on the wind.

This was all about having a good time.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth cocktail, Vespar handed you a cigar he'd negotiated off an Azzurri. You remember being alive, present, unafraid.

I don't want to think about this. [Dismiss.]