Chapter 5 - Cool Night Air And Heavy Cards
The interior of the sedan smelled of old leather, clean rain, and a faint trace of cedarwood. The dashboard glowed with soft white indicators, casting a pale light across Salvatore's hands as he rested them lightly on the steering wheel. He hadn't turned the engine on yet; we sat in the quiet dark of the alley while the rain began to spit against the windshield in thin, silver needles.
"You don't have to do this," I said, looking out at the brick wall opposite us. "It's three blocks to the stop."
"I know I don't have to," Salvatore said, his voice level. He shifted slightly in the leather seat, turning his head toward me. The overhead light didn't turn on, but the ambient glow from a storefront down the street caught the edge of his cheek. "You think everyone who offers a ride wants something complicated, don't you?"
"In this neighborhood? Usually, yes," I said, offering a small, dry smile of my own. "People don't pull up behind dumpsters out of pure charity."
"Charity isn't the word I'd use," he murmured, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to my hands resting on my knees before returning to my eyes.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small, heavy card made of thick, matte black stock. There were no raised gold letters, no corporate logos, just a single phone number printed in clean, silver ink. He didn't hand it to me directly; he placed it on the center console between us, right where the soft light hit the edge.
"If your brother ever needs a specialist—someone who actually listens instead of reading off a chart—call that number," Salvatore said quietly. "No strings attached to the service industry. Just a contact."
I looked down at the black card, my fingers hovering just above it. The offer was too specific, too grounded in the detail I had dropped earlier about Leo to be a random gesture of polite interest. He had remembered. He had filed it away under the heading of things that mattered.
"Why?" I asked, looking back up into his dark eyes, refusing to let him look away first.
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"Because people who spend their lives translating for others usually forget to ask for help themselves," Salvatore said, turning the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life with a deep, muffled purr. "And because I don't like leaving a conversation half-finished."
The car slid out of the alley and into the wet, glittering streets of the city, the wiper blades moving back and forth in a steady, rhythmic beat that filled the silence between us.
