Carlo Esposito arrived at exactly nine o'clock.
Not 9:02. Not 8:58. Nine o'clock precisely, which told me something about him before he'd said a single word.
He was taller than he'd appeared from across the street. Broad-shouldered in a way that suggested physical work earlier in life, now softened slightly by decades of a desk career. He had his father's eyes I recognized them from the single photograph Ginevra had shown me in Florence but something harder in the set of his jaw. Something that spoke of a person who'd made difficult decisions and lived with them rather than someone who'd avoided difficulty.
He carried a leather briefcase that was old enough to have genuine wear at the corners. Expensive once, now simply used. Like someone who valued things for their function rather than their appearance.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said at the door. Italian accent where Ginevra's had been faint, his was present. "Thank you for seeing me."
