I smile. “That sounds almost like advice.”
“It is.”
“How generous. Does Alessandro know you’re handing out contraband?”
“I’ve advised Alessandro for thirty years. He has survived much of it.”
“High praise.”
“He isn’t an easy man to advise.”
“No. I imagine he files advice under the weather and waits for it to pass.”
This time, the smile almost arrives. “He listens more than he appears to.”
“That’s a very low bar.”
Salvatore sits across from me without asking. That’s interesting. He folds his hands over the books. “You’re well today?”
I tilt my head. “Compared to when?”
“Compared to yesterday.”
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“I have been talking to the don,” he says casually. “About you. I told him you’re pushing beyond endurance.”
“How disappointing. I’d hoped for something more flattering.”
“I also said you’re intelligent enough to know that and stubborn enough to continue.”
I smile. “Better.”
“Not praise.”
“I accept limited recognition in hostile environments.”
He watches me. “You’re searching for something.”
“Everyone here says that as if it’s a revelation.”
“It isn’t. The question is whether you know what you’re searching for.”
“I know exactly what I’m searching for.”
“No,” he says gently. “You know what you want to find.”
I dislike him immediately. Or, more accurately, I dislike his accuracy.
“That sounds like something a man says before withholding useful information,” I say.
He offers me a one-shouldered shrug. “Perhaps.”
“At least the Italians are honest about being obstructive.”
“Not always.”
“Tragic. I was beginning to admire the consistency.”
