“Maybe. I don’t know. Men in suits. One had a broken nose. They asked what I saw. I said nothing. They paid me for saying nothing.”
“How much?”
He tells me. Too little for a murder. Enough for a frightened clerk.
“Then someone else came,” he says.
My skin tightens. “When?”
“Two days later. Older. Polite. Scar near his ear. Told me the money I’d taken bought silence, but silence had to be maintained properly. Said I should visit cousins for a while.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“He didn’t need to.”
No. Men inside Alessandro’s system rarely do. They simply describe the world until obedience becomes the only logical response.
“Was that man Luca?” I ask.
Roberto shakes his head quickly. “No.”
“Marco?”
“I don’t know names.”
“Would you recognize him?”
“Yes.”
That matters.
“Do you still have the receipt copy?”
His gaze darts away.
“Roberto,” I press.
“No.”
“You told me you kept copies.”
“I burned some.”
“Some,” I echo.
He looks at me with exhausted hatred. “You people always hear the smallest word.”
“It’s usually where truth hides.”
“I have a copy of the card slip. Not the full receipt.”
My breath catches, but I keep my face still. “Dante’s card?”
“Initials. Last four digits. Time. Pump.”
“Where?”
“No.”
