Page 115 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
“You think I wanted you quiet,” he says. “I needed you loud. I needed you safe. If the wrong ear hears before I set the story, the baby is not a secret. The baby is an asset. The elders call it family. The cousins call it protection. It looks like control. It turns into rules. Drivers you didn’t choose. Doors you don’t open. A calendar that is not yours.”
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” I fire back. “Because your first thought is the room and the rules. Not me.”
“My first thought is keeping you breathing,” he snaps. “That is what the room is for.”
“Your room,” I say. “Your rules. Your men. Your phone. Every time it rings, the rest of us stop talking.”
He stops walking and looks at me like I have pulled a wire he did not want to see.
He exhales and starts again, tighter now.
“Listen to me,” he says. “If the Don hears before I do this right, we get announcements and a seat at a table I'm not ready to share. The child goes in a book with a seal. That book moves people. That is how it has worked for a hundred years. I can stop that if I move first. I can't stop it if this leaks from a doorway or a kitchen whisper.”
“Do you hear yourself?” My voice climbs and I can't bring it back down. “You say book and seal like we are talking about a new oven for the bakery. This is my body. This is a child. I'm not a page in a ledger.”
“And I'm not a man who lets my family use you,” he says. It comes out hard. “But I needed the truth to do the job.”
We are both loud now.
My hands shake and I hate it.
He reaches for the chair and does not throw it.
He pulls it out and sits.
He rubs his temples with his thumbs and stares at the floor.
The quiet lands all at once.
It leaves me with nothing to push against.
My eyes burn.
I blink and the tears jump the line anyway.
One, then more.
I try to turn away and fail at that too.
He hears the sound more than he sees it.
His shoulders drop.
He looks up.
“Come here,” he says, softer.
I don’t move.
He stands, then sits back down again like he knows hovering will only make it worse.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm bad at this part. I'm better when the enemy is outside the door.” He scrubs a hand over his face and lets it fall. “I should have said it sooner. I have been in love with you since that first week in the bakery. The morning you pushed a plate at me and told me to eat while you washed your hands twice because you were nervous and you didn’t want me to see it. I saw it. I saw you. I did not have words that did not break things, so I kept my mouth shut and tried to be careful. I did not want to make you part of this. I also could not stay away.”
It hits me like a door opening.
Not a promise.
A fact he was carrying around because he thought it would cost us more to say it out loud.
