And, like clockwork, here he is. At first glance, he doesn't look like the son of one of the most notorious men in New York's criminal underworld. He looks like a regular twenty-something, practically indistinguishable from the hundreds of other young men just like him, wearing an olive-colored shirt open over a dark blue polo, jeans, and heavy brown boots. White earbuds snake out of his ears and the cord runs down his chest to one of the pockets of his jacket, and he moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who's done this enough that it's become muscle memory.

Though he looks relaxed, his dark eyes move constantly, taking everyone in, including her. His mouth quirks up at one corner in a smile, because she's a pretty young woman, and he's appreciative of that. There's no further contact than that, though, and he looks down the tunnel, waiting to see the lights of the train.