Page 91 of Ricardo

This must be Dario.

“You called?” he asks.

Ricardo switches into that crisp, efficient mode again. “Original consent paperwork to Mario. Direct handoff to his office. No stops. Call me when it is in his hands. Then you are dismissed from there.”

Dario nods.

I remove the signed original, check it one more time because I cannot help myself, then place it in the envelope Marisa brings. She hands me a towel at the same time.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You are welcome.”

Ricardo seals the envelope after I slide the document inside. Then he hands it to Dario.

“Be careful,” he says.

“I will.”

Dario leaves.

And just like that, the task is gone.

The signed consent is out of my hands.

Mario will get it.

The only thing there is to focus on is the fact that I am standing in Ricardo Conti’s study while a storm beats against the windows.

I rub the towel over my hair.

Ricardo watches me for half a second, then looks toward Marisa. “Coffee?”

“Already started,” she says.

“Thank you.”

She gives him one last assessing look, then leaves the room.

The silence after her departure feels different from the silence in the car.

I fold the towel in my hands. “She seems fond of you.”

“You noticed that when she was scolding me, huh?” he asks dryly.

“It was… affectionate scolding.”

He looks mildly surprised. “You understood that much?”

“The tone was obvious, but I understood well enough,” I explain. “My Italian is rusty, not dead.”

“Good to know.”

I narrow my eyes. “Were you planning to take advantage of my rusty Italian?”

“No.” He steps closer to the desk, picking up the towel Marisa left for him. “But now I know to be more careful.”

“That sounds awfully suspicious.”