"Nancy," he returns politely, waiting for her to collect her things. His gaze ticks down briefly, the state of her clothing and the abundance of visible skin drawing the eye. She smells like work under her faded perfume, men and blood and the institutional scent of the jail itself.

Ezio transfers his phone to his hip pocket, shrugging off his blazer to pull over her shoulders and whisk her away without a glance behind.

"I was concerned when you did not call," he tells her as they're on their way out. Stepping ahead with his wider stride, he holds the door for her. Nothing to see here, just picking up his hooker friend.