Page 16 of Roberto

At the door of the hangar was a black limousine. Beside it stood a tall, fit, 20-something Asian man in an impeccably tailored black suit.

His shirt was burgundy-colored silk, and his collar was open at the neck with no tie.

His stylish haircut was immaculate, his black leather shoes were expensive, and he wore a gold wristwatch.

His face was impassive, and his eyes were deep, dark wells.

He looked like a sharply dressed gangster, not a businessman.

Even worse, the way he carried himself reminded me of a calmer, more dead-eyed version of Adriano…

Which worried me immensely.

It must have worried Niccolo, too, because he whispered in Italian,“That’syour contact?”

“I assume it’s a babysittersentby my contact.”

“Wonderful,” my brother grunted.

“Mr. Han, I presume?” I called out as we approached.

“Correct,” the man said without smiling. Like Lau, he had a British accent, which made sense. Hong Kong was a British Colony up until 1999, and British English was taught in most schools. “You are Mr. Rosolini?”

“I am.”

Han frowned as he looked over at Niccolo. “I didn’t know you had a twin.”

“Surprise!” Niccolo said.

Though Niccolo and I look almost exactly alike, we’re fraternal twins, not identical – meaning that we came from two separate eggs inside our mother’s womb.

However similar our facial features were, our personal styles were miles apart. I preferred three-piece suits and ties; Niccolo hated them and opted for open-necked shirts and no jackets. Iwore my hair slicked back, while Niccolo preferred his wild and free.

Our personalities were opposites, as well. I was laid-back and introverted; Niccolo was outgoing and chatty.

My brother immediately dialed up the charm to 11.

“I suppose we’re both Mr. Rosolini, but you can call me Niccolo,” he said, extending his hand.

The Asian man regarded him coldly without moving to shake hands. “You can call me Mr. Han.”

“Well,” Niccolo said as he withdrew his hand. “Mr. Han it is, then.”

Han turned to me. “Your brother will not be able to attend the meeting with Mr. Lau.”

“Didn’t want to,” Niccolo said cheerfully. “I’m going to Macau. If you could tell me the quickest way to get there, I would be much obliged.”

“You can take a helicopter from any of a dozen businesses here at the airport. Helicopter rides take only 15 minutes. Do you know where you’re going?”

“The El Dorado Macau.”

“They’re hosting a poker tournament right now.”

“Is that so?” Niccolo said brightly, like it was a fascinating factoid.

I knew my brother well. The glibness in his voice made me wonder if the poker tournament was somehow connected to his decision to come to Hong Kong – but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

“The El Dorado has a landing pad on top of the hotel,” Han said. “You can fly directly there.”

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