Page 41 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He meets my eye as we pass the register and inclines his head a second time, smaller.
Consigliere without saying it, which is the way it should be.
The bar runs along the front window.
Men sit there who like to watch the door.
Women sit there who know every bartender by first name and keep their backs straight.
It looks like any other bar in this city from three steps away.
From one step, you can tell who came for a drink and who came for a view.
I feel it before I see it.
A gaze that holds too long.
A shoulder that does not relax when it should.
A jacket that hangs wrong because there is weight under it that is not keys.
As we pass, a man at the far end turns his head just enough to put his eyes on Elisa instead of his glass.
His mouth tightens by a degree.
His jacket lifts at the hem when he reaches for his drink.
The edge of a holster flashes the way a coin flashes before you pocket it.
I lay my hand lightly at the small of her back as if I'm being polite about a door.
My other hand is already empty and ready to be full if I need it.
The street outside looks gentle through the frosted glass.
Inside, something tilts.
“Keep walking,” I murmur. “Don't look back.”
7
ELISA
His hand settles at the small of my back like a polite suggestion that is not actually a suggestion.
Nico’s gaze moves once across the mirror behind the bar, then past the door, then down to my shoes like he is calculating how fast I can run in them.
He nods at Mario the waiter with the kind of thank you that fits in a blink, and then we are moving.
“Back exit,” he says softly.
I let him steer.
It's not submission.
It's survival with good manners.
We cut through a narrow service corridor that smells like garlic and brass polish.
