The engine purred like a sleeping animal.
Joseph opened the passenger door without looking at me, as if the gesture had been decided hours before I arrived.
"Get in."
I hesitated.
The leather inside the Ferrari looked darker than the night itself. Not black exactly — something older. Something expensive. Something that had known the weight of men who never apologised.
"Me?" I asked.
Joseph turned his head slightly, the cigar glowing between his fingers.
"Yes, you."
His voice was calm. Calm in the way a cathedral is calm.
I slid into the seat.
The door shut with the heavy certainty of a vault closing.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
The smell of oud filled the car.
Not the vulgar kind that attacks the nose like a drunken uncle at a wedding — this one was quiet, almost aristocratic. Beneath it something else moved: iris, saffron, cedar, a faint bitterness of agarwood.
A scent that couldn't decide if it belonged to a man or a woman.
Joseph exhaled slowly.
"You like the car?"
"It's beautiful."
He smiled faintly.
"This was given to my grandfather by Enzo Ferrari himself. Delivered personally in 1961."
I raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds… ceremonial."
Joseph shrugged.
"The charges against my grandfather were dismissed that same week. The timing amused Enzo."
The car rolled forward, gliding through the narrow Sicilian streets like a shark through shallow water.
"So," Joseph said casually, "have you heard of Vittorio?"
The name tugged at something half-remembered.
"Vittorio… Colombo?"
Joseph nodded once.
"Some say he took a man's head off with his bare hands."
I laughed.
"With his bare hands? Caspita… people really believe that?"
Joseph turned the wheel slowly.
"People believe what frightens them."
"So he didn't?"
Joseph flicked ash out the window.
"No."
A pause.
Then he added quietly,
"He wears a glove."
I glanced at him.
"A glove?"
"On the right hand."
Joseph held his own hand up briefly, mimicking the shape.
"Inside the glove there is a blade. Very thin. Hidden between the thumb and index finger. When he presses the trigger in his palm, the blade slides out."
The engine hummed.
"He doesn't move when he fights," Joseph continued.
"He waits."
I imagined it — a man standing still while another ran towards him.
"When the boy lunged," Joseph said, "Colombo simply ducked."
Joseph sliced the air with two fingers.
"One movement."
He snapped his fingers.
"And the head fell."
The Ferrari turned onto the road leading out of town.
"The most frightening part," Joseph added softly, "was not the blade."
"What was it?"
"He never stepped back."
Joseph smiled.
"He stood there like a statue."
Outside the window the olive groves blurred into darkness.
"Why didn't the others shoot him?" I asked.
Joseph laughed.
"They had guns."
"Exactly."
"Yes."
He leaned back in his seat.
"But men with guns are rarely brave."
The car accelerated.
"Besides," Joseph continued, "they had orders not to kill him."
"Why?"
"He knew where Mansueto's son was."
"The boy who was kidnapped?"
Joseph nodded.
"The Canzano family wanted him back."
"And Colombo?"
Joseph looked ahead at the road.
"He walked away."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Silence filled the car again.
Then I said quietly,
"Che figata…"
Joseph laughed.
"You sound impressed."
"I am."
I looked out the window.
"Are we going to meet him?"
Joseph shrugged.
"Maybe."
The headlights cut through the darkness.
"No one really knows where La Stidda is," he said.
"Except Don Vitelli."
"And you?"
Joseph smiled.
"I know a few things."
The road bent towards the hills.
Joseph glanced at me sideways.
"If you're lucky, Silvio…"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…you might even see him tonight."