He looked at Elena. She wasn’t afraid. She was watching him with the same unnerving stillness her father had once used when facing down a rival.
“Your house,” she said. “My papa used to work for you. Mario Tessitore.” Stany Falcone
Stany studied the girl. “What’s your name?” He looked at Elena
“Your father and I had a disagreement,” Stany said carefully. ” Stany said carefully.