I sat close to Leo, speaking in the low, calm tones I had practiced during my university clinicals.

“Your family is safe, Leo, but you have to tell us who holds the markers,” I said, offering him a glass of water.

By the end of the hour, Leo was weeping, handing over a list of names and thanking me for listening.

Two days later, I sat with the wife of a senior lieutenant who was threatening to go to the federal prosecutors.

She was terrified, clutching her designer purse to her chest like a weapon.

I validated her fear, explained how Dante could guarantee her children’s safety, and negotiated a quiet relocation.

“You have a gift,” Dante told me after that meeting, his voice low in the quiet, carpeted hallway of the club.

“It is just basic human psychology,” I said, looking down at my hands.

“No,” he said, stepping closer so I could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and rain on his coat. “It is empathy. Most people in my world do not possess it.”

Every time I worked, I felt Dante’s eyes on me.