A thin man with a long face, Pete looked to be a dash to Bruno’s dot.
Peter Di Vittorio had never married. After his mother died, Bruno had been the closest thing to family he had. Neither were that old, only early fifties, but liver spots covered Pete’s gaunt face. He raised the highball glass, three quarters full of Burgundy, to his lips and drained a third of the liquid. His weathered hand had developed a slight tremor. Kane had never seen him without a glass of wine. He sipped from a tumbler during the daylight hours and a tall glass after five.