Page 47 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Between courses, the door stays shut and the club itself fades into a hum on the other side of the wall.
We are in the quiet eye of a storm I made by design.
I can feel the weight lift from her shoulders by degrees.
I put my hand on the table and she places hers over it as if we have been rehearsing this for months.
The room shrinks to her laugh and the clink of porcelain and the way the candlelight gives her skin a color that makes me think about summer.
“You and your traditions,” she says, teasing, warmth reaching for me through the shape of the word.
“Traditions are fences you can see,” I say. “The wolves don't like fences.”
“Maybe they jump them,” she says.
“Not if we mend the rails,” I answer, and the waiter slides plates in front of us while we smile at something we did not say.
Course four islinguine alle vongole, the clams just open, the garlic new enough to be soft, the heat measured so the shells don't toughen and the parsley keeps its color.
I twist pasta onto her fork and she lets me, which is a level of trust I don't expect from a woman who knows how to stitch with her eyes half closed.
“Clams teach omertà,” I say softly. “Stay closed, live. Open at the right time, feed everyone. Open at the wrong time, you get a knife under the hinge.”
“You realize I'm eating while you explain this,” she says, amusement cutting the edge.
“Eat,” I say, and the word comes out closer to a vow than I intend. “You are safe with me.”
She hears it.
She does not make me repeat it.
She eats, and I watch her mouth and place every expression into a ledger I don't let anyone see.
My phone vibrates once against my thigh and I ignore it because the person who sent it knows the rule of three.
If it matters, it will ring again.
Course five ispolpoinumido, octopus simmered with tomatoes until the sauce thickens and the meat gives up.
The forks cut clean. She asks nothing until she has swallowed and sipped water.
“Let me guess,” she says. “Octopus has many arms, like your network.”
“Like our obligations,” I correct. “Every arm touches a different kitchen. You forget one, a pot boils over.”
“You talk like a man with too many stoves,” she says, and she leans closer in the booth like she might be the one cool surface in a room of heat. “How many are you minding tonight?”
“Only this one,” I say, which is almost true for the length of a meal.
Course six is the piece the old men always looked forward to, a wholebranzinobaked in salt, the crust cracked at the table so the steam floats up and the room remembers the sea.
The waiter breaks the shell with the back of a spoon and peels it away like a magician.
Inside, the fish lies perfect and patient.
He fillets with a care that says someone taught him with a slap to the wrist when he was twelve.
He lays a portion on her plate and on mine and leaves the lemon in a neat half-moon.
