Page 123 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
She looks at the door, then at me.
“I hate this part.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”
The kid is all sharp bones and bad choices.
He keeps trying on different faces to see which one fits—thief, hero, victim, ghost.
None of them do.
I don’t threaten him.
I give him a fact he can live with.
“You hit the wrong floor,” I tell him. “You came for the wrong woman. She’s under my roof now. If someone sends you again, you don’t come back with a knife. You come back with a priest.”
He tries to spit at my shoes.
The spit doesn’t make it.
He swallows it and tries a grin instead. “You think I’m scared of priests?”
“I think you don’t know what you’re scared of yet,” I say. “Here’s a hint. It isn’t me. It’s the man who told you this was easy. Go tell him it wasn’t.”
I leave him sweating and walk back to the consult room.
Rafe stands like a statue with eyes.
Tino has the staff hall covered, hands loose at his sides.
Inside, Elisa is back in her sweater and looks less pale.
“Done?” she asks.
“Done,” I say. “We’re leaving by the service corridor. Rafe’s got the car. We’re not going to your place.”
Her head comes up at that.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re not going to your place,” I repeat. “Your name is on a buzzer that can be photographed. Your routine is clockwork. Your block has a car on it that doesn’t blink enough. I’m done letting you walk through that grid with luck for cover.”
“So, where?” she says, already knowing.
“My place.”
“No,” she says. “I have a life. A job. A mother who expects me to answer the door on Sundays with flour on my hands.”
“You can bring the flour,” I say. “What you can’t bring is the risk. You move in. Tonight.”
She steps closer.
Her chin lifts enough to make room for a fight. “I'm not a package to be moved.”
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re a person who keeps me honest. You’re also carrying my kid. My job is to make the street safe. Your job, now, is to help me keep the kid safe while I do it.”
Her eyes flash with something that’s anger until it isn’t.
