He called her on a Wednesday.
She did not recognise the number. She answered anyway because she was between jobs at the shop and Tomas was on lunch and the phone had rung three times already from the same number and persistence was either determination or emergency and she had learned not to ignore either.
Aria Leone, he said.
She knew the voice immediately.
Warm. Easy. The kind of voice that had decided long ago that the world responded better to warmth than to anything else and had been proven right often enough to keep doing it.
Luca Marchetti, she said.
You remembered, he said.
You are not easy to forget, she said. Which is probably deliberate.
He laughed. Genuine. Surprised again the way he had been surprised at the rooftop. Like she kept doing something he had not calculated
