The Maverick

Fifteen minutes later,in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car with blacked-out windows, driving through the dark and quiet Boston streets, I watched him, waiting for him to break down. He didn’t. He remained stoic and stern, his lips tight. When we pulled up outside the door to the apartment he shared with his college friends, I couldn’t help myself and said, “I’m so sorry, Bruno.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “You did your job. I can always count on you to be utterly unscrupulous when it comes to protecting LSA’s image.”

Without another word, he got out of the car and didn’t look back.