Page 37 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Her coat is the wrong one for a night that might get cold later, which means she left in a hurry after saying she would not.
Anger sits on her face like a veil she could lift or not.
She crosses the room with a straight spine, and I stand because I was raised under a roof where you stand when a woman comes to the table if you want to keep your teeth.
“Elisa,” I say.
“Nico,” she answers. Her voice is composed and bright. It's also edged. “You asked for this, so you can go first.”
I take the hint and nod. “Thank you for coming.”
“Don't thank me yet,” she says. She slides into the booth and keeps her hands on the table as if she is not going to grip anything I offer. “Why am I here?”
“Because I'm not a man who leaves loose ends,” I say, and then I tell the truth I brought. “And because you became one the day I put my head on your pillow.”
She watches my mouth, not my eyes, which is what people do when they want to hear without forgiving.
I sit.
I keep my palms open on the table where she can see them.
It's not contrition.
It's respect.
Mario appears with wine neither of us asked for and bread that is warm enough to make you forget your name.
He names the bottle in a whisper meant to impress no one and leaves the cork by my water as if it matters.
She does not touch the glass.
“Please,” I tell her quietly. “Let me ask for you.”
Her cheek moves, a skeptical smile that would be dangerous if I did not like danger.
“You think you know what I want?” she says.
“I know what this kitchen does when you order like family,” I say. I nod to Mario when he looks over, and he comes like a man who has been waiting for this arrangement since Prohibition.
“From the old list,” I tell him. “Osso bucowithgremolata.Cicoria ripassatawith lemon. If the kitchen has it, a small plate ofpanelle. Two espresso later, not now.”
Mario’s mouth twitches.
The menus stay closed.
He leaves us with the bread.
“I'm not hungry.” Elisa frowns.
“You will be when it arrives,” I answer. “They cook for men who have not eaten at a table in months. The room knows what to do.”
She tears the bread anyway and taps the crust against the plate as if she is testing for poison.
She bites.
She chews.
She tries to keep it from showing and fails.
