I wasn't planning to follow her, but Bianca has this way of making you feel like she already knew you were going to. Psychic powers? Mafia's sister intuition? Either way, I found myself hesitating at the entrance of the movie room like a guilty intruder.
It looked less like a casual hangout and more like a private cinema for movie-obsessed billionaires. Plush recliners. Velvet drapes. A screen so big I was pretty sure NASA could use it for satellite tracking.
Bianca was already parked near the front, her wheelchair angled with precision. She looked like a queen about to judge a film festival. Which, I guess, wasn't too far off.
She didn't say anything. Just gave me a look that screamed: You're late, dude.
