He stopped.
Slowly, he pulled out a folded sheet protected inside a narrow plastic sleeve.
The CEO recognized the handwriting before he opened it.
Her father’s.
Every trace of irritation disappeared.
“Give me that.”
The Single Dad handed it over.
Her fingers trembled despite herself.
The note contained numbers.
Wire colors.
A crude diagram.
A name.
The Single Dad’s face changed when he saw it.
The CEO noticed.
“You know that name.”
He remained silent.
“Who is he?”
The Single Dad looked at the note.
“The man who trained me.”
The CEO stared.
One of the mechanics stopped breathing loudly enough for everyone to hear.
She looked back at the page.
Below the name, her father had written:
When someone finally understands what this car is hiding, let him finish what we started.
The CEO slowly looked toward the man in the charcoal work shirt.
The janitor.
The man holding no engineering badge.
No restoration certification on file.
No executive title.
No expensive watch.
“Who are you?”
she asked.
The Single Dad gave her the answer she hated most.
“Right now?”
He looked toward the broom.
“Your night janitor.”
She did not laugh.
Neither did anyone else.
The CEO dismissed the rest of the meeting ten minutes later.
Several specialists protested.
She ignored them.
Only the Garage Owner, the Single Dad, and one senior technician remained.
The metallic-gray Ferrari sat between them.
The CEO placed her father’s note on a clean workbench.
“You knew my father?”
The Single Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“You knew the man named here.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He taught me restoration engineering.”
The CEO stared.
The Garage Owner looked equally surprised.
“You never told me that.”
The Single Dad looked toward him.
“You hired a janitor.”
“You never asked for a résumé.”
The Garage Owner blinked.
Fair.
The CEO crossed her arms.
“Where?”
The Single Dad hesitated.
Then told her.
A small specialist restoration operation once located outside Modena, later moved partially to California.
Not a famous public brand.
Famous among the people who mattered.
They restored engines, electrical systems, and competition cars for private collectors.
The mentor named in the letter had been one of the most respected electrical and mechanical diagnosticians in vintage racing cars.
The CEO knew the reputation.
Everyone did.
“He trained you?”
“For seven years.”
“In Italy?”
“Partly.”
“California?”
“Mostly.”
“What happened?”
The Single Dad looked toward the car.
“The shop closed.”
“That doesn’t explain why you became a janitor.”
“No.”
She waited.
He did not continue.
The CEO’s frustration returned.
“You enjoy making people ask twice.”
“No.”
“You do.”
The Garage Owner interrupted.
“Maybe let the man look at the car.”
The CEO turned.
The Garage Owner shrugged.
“You came here because the Ferrari doesn’t run.”
That was true.
She hated that everyone around her had suddenly become reasonable.
“Fine.”
She looked at the Single Dad.
“What do you need?”