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“Yes, sir.”
He walked around the desk, arms open wide, and clasped my face tenderly like Dario had on many occasions back in San Vittore.
“You saved my son’s life,” he said with a huge smile and misty eyes. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
And he embraced me warmly.
I was surprised at the show of affection, but I hugged him back until he released me.
“I am Leonardo Rosolini,” he said, then gestured to the man in the three-piece suit. “This is my brother Fausto.”
“A pleasure to meet you both,” I said.
“Your Italian is quite good,” Leonardo complimented me. “You sound almost like you were born in Tuscany.”
“Your son is a good teacher. And he had three and a half years to teach me.”
Leonardo laughed. “An Italian teacher… now there’s something I never thought Dario would go on to do. Niccolo, pour us a drink.” The older man turned to me. “What’ll you have?”
“Scotch, please.”
“Excellent – we have a very nice Macallan. Niccolo, I’ll have grappa.”
I knew grappa was an old-country Italian liquor. Leonardo was apparently a traditionalist.
“Uncle?” Niccolo said as he walked over to a sideboard filled with crystal glasses and expensive bottles.
“Nothing for me,” Fausto replied.
“There’s a lesson for you, Niccolo,” Leonardo said. “A good consigliere always stays sharp so he can see what his don might miss.” The older man turned back to me. “You’re familiar with the term consigliere?”
“Dario explained the concept to me.”
“Niccolo’s a born consigliere, but he has much to learn, so we let him sit in and listen. He picks up little bits of wisdom here and there. Sit, sit, please.”
I sat in a leather chair as the two older men lowered themselves into seats opposite me.
“I know it’s been several days since you’ve seen him, but Dario’s doing well?” Leonardo asked, a hint of worry in his voice. “We’ve talked to him on the phone since then, but that’s not the same as seeing him.”
“He’s doing quite well.”
“He’s in good health and good spirits?”
“Very much so.”
Niccolo brought us our drinks. I sipped mine and was astounded – it was the smoothest scotch I’d ever tasted. I immediately wondered how old that ‘nice Macallan’ was – 30 years, maybe? Which would make it at least $5000 a bottle.
I looked over at Niccolo, who was sitting in a chair to my side without a drink of his own. He saw my expression and grinned like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“I talk to my son every other day, sometimes every third day,” Leonardo said. I knew that to be accurate from being Dario’s cellmate for years. “I’d like to go see him in person, but my consigliere here won’t let me.”
“Probably prudent,” I said diplomatically.
God only knows what the Camorra might do if they knew Leonardo would be inside San Vittore.
Leonardo sighed. “Probably so. Dario says he’s well, but I wonder sometimes if he’s just telling his old man what he wants to hear so I won’t worry.”
“He’s doing well,” I said. “I promise you.”
