“Be precise.”
“I was driving home. I’d closed early after he came in shouting. Didn’t like the look of him. Didn’t like the blood. Didn’t like that car.”
“What car?”
“Dark Alfa. Same one.”
“Registration?”
He gives me three letters and two numbers. They match the partial receipt. They match the maintenance log. They match the shape of the lie.
“What was he doing?”
“Standing outside the car. Driver’s door open. Phone in his hand. He looked…” Roberto swallows. “Wrong.”
“Drunk?”
“Angry. Not drunk. Maybe both. But angry more.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“No.”
“Did you see my father’s car?”
“No.”
Disappointment is a foolish thing. I crush it quickly. “What did you see?”
“He had blood here.” Roberto touches his own cuff, left wrist. “And on the side of his hand. Not much. Enough.”
“Fresh?”
“How would I?—”
“Wet or dry?”
He closes his eyes briefly. “Dark. Smudged. Maybe drying.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yes.”
The air changes. “How do you know?”
“Because he stopped talking. Looked right at me. I kept driving.”
“And then?”
“Next morning, men came.”
“Vitale men?”
He looks at Luca again. “Not his.”
Interesting.
“Dante’s?”
