Not a question. A statement. Like he knows.
He flags down a server who looks ready to spontaneously combust. “Water. Now.”
The server scrambles.
“Boss. Please.”
“In a minute, Enzo.”
Enzo. The panic-man has the kind of name you scream as he takes you apart and looks like he’s about to start breaking necks.
But Dario stays. Crouched beside me. Making sure I can breathe.
Making sure I’m okay.
The water arrives. He hands it to me personally. Watches while I drink with shaking hands.
Our fingers brush.
I almost drop the glass.
“Better?”
I nod. It’s a lie. Nothing about this is better.
Everything about this is perfect and I’m absolutely going to hell.
Sirens. Right outside now.
“Boss.” Real fear in Enzo’s voice this time.
Finally, finally, Dario looks away. Toward the flashing lights outside. Something crosses his face. Calculation. Acceptance.
He stands. Straightens his jacket one more time.
“You’re going to be fine,” he tells me. Then, quieter, like he’s talking to himself: “I’m sorry you saw that.”
Not sorry he did it.
Sorry I saw it.
He noticed me. Saw me. Stayed to make sure I was okay.
That should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
Police burst through the door. Guns drawn. Shouting.
Everything becomes chaos and movement and someone’s asking if I’m okay, if I saw what happened, if I can give a statement.
Can I give a statement?
Oh boy, can I ever.
I open my mouth and it all spills out. Every detail. Every observation I shouldn’t know.
