“Useful,” Ricardo says, “if this is not a problem wearing opportunity’s clothes.”
Dante’s stare cuts to his father. “She is not a problem.”
Ricardo’s eyes narrow. “You do not know that.”
“I know her.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
Dante goes quiet.
For a second, I see the boy beneath the man. Not weakness. Something rawer. Younger.
Then it is gone.
I look at Ricardo.
Then at Lorenzo.
Then back to Dante.
“Does she know what kind of position this is?” I ask.
“I haven’t told her about it, but I will, if you agree.”
“Does she know who we are?”
Dante’s mouth tightens. “Must she?”
“Fair enough.”
“She lived in Naples,” Ricardo says. “She may know more than most.”
“That,” I say, “may be useful or dangerous.”
Dante does not argue.
Good.
He is not a fool.
Protective, perhaps. Too close to the matter, perhaps. But not a fool.
“Arrange a sit-down,” I tell him.
Dante looks at me.
“Next week,” I continue. “At the office. I will speak with her myself.”
He nods, tight and controlled. “I’ll arrange it.”
“And Dante.”
His eyes meet mine.
“You say she wants quiet. I want assurances that she, in fact, does. I’m not interested in political spectacle.”
Something flickers across his face.
