Page 151 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The Don flips to the café receipt. “Rosa,” he says to himself.
He has known Rosa longer than my mother has known me.
He taps the paper.
“Her numbers never lie.”
“They don’t,” I say. “And neither does the union box. Look at page three.”
He does.
He exhales through his nose.
For him, that’s shouting.
Marco tries one last angle.
“If this is true, then the Santangelos share the blame. My uncle didn’t build a house you could poke with a fork. He kept order while you wrote poetry about bread.”
Luca clears his throat like an apology to air. “My house doesn’t like the smell of cops either,” he says. “You brought it into the kitchen. That’s the problem. Not him and his bread.”
A few heads nod.
The elders count votes by eyelids.
It doesn’t look good for Marco.
He knows it.
He reaches for swagger and comes up with sweat.
“Don,” he says, palms up. “Let me fix it my way. Give me a week and I’ll bring you the clerk, the driver, the union man, anyone you want. I’ll put their tongues on the table.”
The Don looks at me.
“Is he lying?”
“He’s stalling,” I say.
“Every hour we wait, a federal lawyer adds a paragraph. They want a narrative. He gave them one. It’s his face and your name.”
“And your lady,” Marco says, unable to help himself.
Something cold inside me sits up.
I don’t raise my voice.
“Mention her again and you will wear soup.”
A few men smile into their napkins.
Humor keeps you from shooting your friends.
The Don pushes the papers together in a neat stack like he’s closing a life.
“Enough,” he says. “Marco, your line is finished. Your accounts will be handed to men who know how to count. Your boys who like loud belts can go drive cabs in Jersey. You will leave this room, thank God for mercy, and sit quietly where you’re told. If any of your people blur this line, I will press it darker. If you open your mouth to any agent in a way that spells this house, I will wire it shut.”
Marco starts to talk.
