His interest was drawn to the front entrance as if expecting something or someone. He knew he was not, yet he could not keep his eyes away from the bells on the door. The discussion to his right had finally come to an end. The group of ostentatious Nazis got up on their feet and advanced towards the entrance. The door drew open and one by one they left the pub. The door hang open for a while. A random shiver ran down his spine. He preferred the sun over the snow. Snow reminded him of corruption. It was like a snowball, always increasing as it rolls.<br/><br/>Luciano stood up and advanced towards the men's washroom. Somebody else in a cop outfit had followed him from behind but the moment this person entered, he disappeared inside one of the four cabinets. The Italian shrugged and walked to the left sink. He quickly loosened the black tie he wore with his white shirt underneath the sweater of a mustard shade, and washed his hands with a free-fragrance soap. He turned the water to hot and the mess of sensory receptors in his hands made him feel as if the water was cold as ice. The paradoxical cold sensation only lasted for couple seconds and his brain realized that the water was indeed hot. The pain receptors made him jerk a little. He re-adjusted the hot water to a decent temperature. That's all he needed. Enough warmth to sooth his cold frame. He let his hands sink under the water for a while as he lifted his head up to stare at himself into the mirror. Rubbing slowly his hands, he closed his eyes and sighed in delight. Gently, he continued to scratch his fingers, his palms; the back of his hands and his wrists. The warm sensations were satisfying and somehow relaxing.<br/><br/>After a few short minutes, Luciano used individual paper to dry his hands and as he prepared to leave, something caught his attention. The locked toilet cabinet. Was it really locked? Doubt and uncertainty crossed his mind momentarily, but he was very certain that he did not hear the cop leaving. Even when he had his eyelids closed, he was very<span style="font-style: italic">sure</span>that<span style="text-decoration: underline">nobody</span>walked in or out. So what was taking this man so long? The person was not taking a big shit, Luciano thought. It was simply this strange feeling he could not comprehend but it made him believe that he was right, in every aspect of the situation. The Italian moved slowly towards the cabinet and with an index, he pressed the finger on the door and slowly pushed. There was nobody inside. It was empty. He expected it to be. A sharp pain shot through his head and the man winced and squeezed his teeth together with all the strength of his jaw muscles. His body shifted around abruptly to see that very same cop, stepping away from the sink counter and to the exit, whistling four particular notes.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">sol la si do...</span><br/><br/>With the pain still in his head, Luciano returned to his table puzzled and ordered himself another glass. His fingers crept along his jaw to the side of his head. He put pressure on his skull with his digits and began to rub the pain away. One thing about music is that once it hits you, you no longer feel pain. Luciano allowed himself to find refuge in its magic; music was the strongest form of enchantment or so he believed. Unfortunately, his relaxation did not last long enough to take the pain away from his head. The presence of another came to him and boldly took a seat across from him. Luciano's eyes fluttered open and he looked at the man before him.<br/><br/>He gave the man one sidelong glance. There was one thing about him that reminded him of his long voyages in God's open seas. For as much as he enjoyed the light, darkness equally brought him satisfaction because this little voice somewhere lost inside him, had once preferred celestial navigation. Darkness showed him the stars. He took a quick note of the man's fabulous golden-brownish locks, aristocratic features and his three-piece<span style="font-style: italic">Ermenegildo Zegna</span>outfit in a taupe color – an off-the-rach Italian luxury only available to the richest of the rich. Luciano did not have to touch the fabric to know that the piece was tailored by the Zegna family.  So why would a man who could afford an easy 40k suit be doing in a third class corner pub such as the one he entered?<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">“Do I know you?”</span>The Italian asked the other in a straightforward manner. No sprinkles or topping to sound at all timid or polite. It was not like the pub could not spare a free table or two. This stranger simply sat there and looked back at him as if expecting something from him one way or another. Luciano's furrowed brow created wrinkles on his forehead as he regarded this stranger.