Forcing himself to sit back and plaster his hands to his thighs, Renard said calmly, “Now. Thiss is soo silly. Peopole will die? Why? Moost of us doon’t even know whut is going on.”

“You don’t need to,” Pablo snapped, mumbing half intelligible curses in Italian.

“Commun corteusy?” Renard tried.

“What?”

“Corteusy.” Renard repeated.

Izzy clarified with a sigh, “Courtesy.”

With a nod of thanks, Renard continued, “Besides, how ken we answer withoot questions?”

John cut in, “Where is Marco?” He asked it of the group, no one in particular.

“Who is Marco?” Renard countered, palms oozing sweat.

John looked at Pablo then went on anyway, “He used to work for our employer, a syndicate out of Naples. He stole something valuable, met a friend here, then disappeared. We want it back and will,” here he nodded at Pablo, “kill anyone in our way.”

Margueritte gasped. Izzy gritted her teeth. Renard looked relieved, “Was that enough, Olga?”

A deep, “Yes,” came from the bedroom.