Page 117 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Eyes up, hands down, call on the first odd thing.
They nod like they’ve already memorized the map.
Elisa opens the door in scrubs and a sweater.
Pale, but steady.
I take her tote and don’t say what I see in her face.
We don’t pretend we’re hiding this.
I walk her to the hospital doors and hand her off to daylight and cameras.
The guard on the stool reads the scene and gives her the look he saves for nurses who bring him extra coffee.
In the glass, I catch our reflection—my hand at the small of her back, her chin up.
Let them see.
I set rotation on the drive back—two cars, shifting tail, third man on foot and out of sight to check corners and cameras.
At shift change, I pull to the curb where she can’t miss me.
She gets in, buckles, and stares out the windshield like she’s bracing.
I let the engine idle a moment.
“You wanted clean words,” I say. “Here they are. In this family, bloodlines get handled two ways. Hidden or paraded.”
She turns her head, waiting.
“Hidden means off the books. No photos. No ledger entry. Doctors who keep their mouths shut. Paraded is the opposite. Feast day pictures. Godfather picked for votes, not love. Drivers and security that make you late to your own life.”
Her hand sits low on her stomach like it’s found a home.
“And us?”
“Hidden,” I say. “Until I cut Marco’s grip and put the Bureau back in their lane. No elders. No cousins. If someone needs toknow, I swear them in a room and keep them close enough to answer for it.”
“Hidden sounds safe,” she says. “It also sounds like alone.”
“It can be both,” I say. “It beats being a headline in a room I don’t control. I won’t let anyone turn you or the kid into a piece on their board.”
She nods.
The city moves around us like it always has.
My phone stays face down.
We don’t make it three blocks before Rafe’s voice breaks in over the mic.
“Black SUV, two back, rides the center line. Same plate series as yesterday.”
I check the mirror.
Matte paint.
Dark tint.
