I step closer. “You came back for money. I can get it.”
“I came back because my nephew needs medicine and because running costs more than fear pays.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t come back to die.”
“I can protect you.”
“No,” he says, and there is no fear in it this time. Only certainty. “You can’t.”
The words land cleanly because they are true.
Roberto leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re in his house. You came here with his man. You think because you knowthings, that means you can use them. But knowing isn’t power. I know. I saw. What did it make me?”
I say nothing. He answers, anyway.
“Hungry. Hunted. Poorer than before.”
The lane seems colder than it was a moment ago. Behind me, I sense Luca shifting. A reminder.
“What do you want for the card slip?” I ask.
Roberto gives a short, broken laugh. “Still bargaining.”
“Yes.”
“Your father really did teach you.”
“Yes,” I say. “He did.”
His expression changes then. Softens in a way I don’t want.
“I liked him,” Roberto says quietly.
My throat tightens. I hate him for saying that.
“He stopped once,” he continues. “Months before. Bought coffee—terrible coffee. Told me so. Paid, anyway.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Said men who sell bad coffee honestly are better than men who sell good lies.”
I look away. For one dangerous second, the crack opens. I see my father’s hand wrapped around a paper cup. Hear his voice, amused and tired. Feel the Dublin rain in my hair, though I am standing in an Italian lane with rosemary crushed in my fist and Alessandro’s children inside me.
No.
Not here. Not now.
“What do you want?” I ask again.
Roberto reaches into his coat.
Luca moves. So fast I barely see the step before he is halfway down the lane, one hand beneath his jacket.
“Stop,” I snap.
Luca stops. Roberto freezes, white-faced, hand half inside his coat.
“Slowly,” Luca says.
Roberto pulls out a folded piece of paper. A note. He holds it out to me with fingers that tremble.
