"You knew my father?" Dante studied the man. Old. Distinguished. Vaguely familiar. "Alessandro? You knew Alessandro Moretti?"

"Pietro Carvalho. Your father and I. We were friends. Close friends. For forty years. Business partners. Confidants. Brothers in everything but blood. I knew him. Better than most. Perhaps better than anyone."

"I don't remember you. From the funeral. From. From anything. Where were you?"

"Your father asked me. Before he died. Before Gregory. Before everything. He asked me to stay away. After. To not contact you. Not immediately. Not until. Not until you'd found your purpose. Found your path. Found yourself. He said. He said I'd know when. When the time was...