—¡Yuck!
Serepa dio υп briпco.
—Yes, ma’am.
—You’re in the pethouse: the boss’s private office and lounge. Move it.
Serepa swallowed. The pethouse was famous for its timidity. The owner, a man spoken of only in fearful whispers like Mr. Roma , was almost never seen during the day. He was a ghost, a shadow that owned half the city’s real estate market and, according to dressing room rumors, a large part of the criminal underworld.