Renzo understood the clock then. He nodded once, not to her but to the reality that had finally introduced itself. He offered the reporter a practiced line about cooperation, about the value of patience, about how modern banking has quirks. The camera light went dark. The operator put his lens cap on like he was closing an eye.
“Very good,” Renzo said to Emilia, back to the smaller voice that belonged to rooms without microphones. “You learn fast.”
“I don’t like repeating lessons.”
He inclined his head and left the way men do when they plan to invent a new story before lunch.
“Tracer riding,” Nora said. “Heading to Orsi. Then the hospital. Then the docks. He’s going to spend favors like towels.”
“Let him,” Emilia said. “We’ll dry our hands.”
They stood under the rose window until the
