Page 39 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The smell rises and tilts the room toward Sicily.
He wants to put down small plates.
I shake my head.
We eat from the same one.
Elisa takes a piece, squeezes lemon, and bites.
The crunch gives way to tender and the look in her eyes goes from bruised to alert.
“You are not telling me everything,” she says. “I understand that is how you work. It's not how I do. You can't ask me to keep walking if I don't know where the sidewalk ends.”
“I'm not asking you to walk,” I say. “I'm telling you that after the night in the bakery, you were in my ledger. If you never forgive me, I will understand. I will still make sure I keep you safe anyway.”
She leans back, hands loose now.
The anger has not left the room.
It sits in the booth with us and eats panelle.
It will take what it's owed and then decide whether to stay.
“You used a sleeping draught,” she says after a breath. “That is a hard fact to get around.”
“I did,” I say. “Because if you woke while I was leaving, you would have tried to keep me, and I'm not as strong as you think I am.”
Her laugh is small.
“That is a new one. Men like you are always strong until they are not.”
Men like me are a different dish in every kitchen.
I let it pass.
“You owed me nothing,” she says. “And you also owe me everything. That is the problem. In your world, those are the same sentence.”
“In my world, a debt is a shield or a shackle,” I say. “I would prefer yours be the first.”
“You can't control that,” she says, and I love her for saying it.
The osso buco arrives with the care of a sacrament.
The plate is white and heavy.
The meat gives under the fork the way it should when someone has watched a pot for hours and not resented it.
The gremolata is green and bright.
The bitter greens come on a side dish dressed in lemon and oil that has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with old men who know what makes the mouth wake up.
Mario places the plates and melts away.
“Eat,” I tell her. “If we are going to fight, let us not do it hungry.”
“We are not fighting,” she says, even as she cuts and takes a bite. “I'm telling you how it felt. It felt like you made me a problem to be managed. It felt like you decided for me.”
“You are right,” I say. “I did. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.”
