Page 43 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
“That one,” he continues, “never said a word to the wrong ear but wrote too much down. Paper is a louder witness than flesh. He went in a river with his rings still on because no one wanted to dignify it with ceremony.”
“And this is a fun tour for kids at birthday parties,” I say, because humor is my umbrella when the weather turns.
“Kids should learn where not to stand,” he says.
He taps another painted face, an older man with soft eyes and a hard mouth.
“He kept omertà like a habit. It gave him a good death. A small one. Family at the bedside. That is the best we get.”
“What do I get?” I ask and surprise myself with how soft it comes out. I'm not looking for guarantees.
I'm looking for where to put my feet.
“You get a door that opens and closes when you want it to,” he says. “As long as I can help it.”
We keep moving.
The alleys knit back together.
A delivery truck rumbles on the next block and someone yells about a missing crate like the crate has personally offended him.
Nico names corners under his breath the way my uncle used to—the shoemaker’s cut, the priest’s turn, the buttonhook, the run-through.
Every name has a story attached in his tone even when he does not tell it.
He signals twice with two fingers low at his thigh, small hand signs that let his shadow behind us know we are fine.
I pretend I did not see a second man fall in step two turns back.
There are things I'm willing to know and things I will let live outside my head so I can sleep.
By the time we hit Mulberry, midnight has passed and the street is quieter than anyone will admit.
Shuttered storefronts carry the last heat of day and the subway hums under everything like a tired heart.
We stop a building short of the bakery.
Nico sets his hand on my arm lightly and watches the block the way I watch a monitor, reading lines that look flat to other people.
He checks sightlines.
He checks reflections in a dark window.
He waits just long enough for a wrong car to announce itself and when nothing does, he nods.
“Go,” he says, and it sounds like a blessing.
I fish my keys out of my pocket and try not to drop them, which would be a real party trick right now.
The roll-up gate is low because I left it that way when I hurried out to meet him.
I lift it two feet, slide under, and lower it again while Nico stands outside, eyes on the street.
He comes after, quiet as a cat, and lets the gate settle.
The bakery smells like old flour and something older, like the walls kept one breath just in case I asked for it back.
“Lights last,” he says.
