Page 53 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He shows me teeth the way amateurs show you tricks. “Word is you have a soft spot.”
I step into him before he can show me his definition of soft.
Elbow to wrist, heel to ankle, the knife clatters and skates under the dumpster as if the night doesn’t want the trouble either.
He swings with his left, slow and hopeful.
I take the punch on my forearm and let him feel how little it matters.
The alley narrows the world to three sounds—his breath, my breath, and the city pretending not to listen.
“Who sent you?” I ask, holding him in a way that lets him pick the next mistake.
He smirks because boys like to perform right up to the edge.
“Ask your uncle,” he says, which is not information and he knows it.
He yanks free and thinks he can run.
I oblige him by letting the first step happen.
The second ends where I knew it would, with his shoe slipping on a dark patch and his shoulder hitting brick.
I follow, quick and quiet and precise, and take the air out of his lungs before he can decide to yell.
I pat him down while he realizes what pain he is willing to call by its real name.
His pocket gives me a cheap flip phone, the battery already out, no numbers worth keeping.
His inner jacket gives me a folded photograph and a matchbook from a bar that changes names every time the rent goes up.
I unfold the photo under the alley light and see Elisa in a grainy frame, hair in a knot, hospital door at her back, timestamp boxed in the corner.
Same angle as the envelope.
Someone is consistent.
He watches my face and decides he enjoys it. “Pretty,” he says. “Shame.”
“You don’t get to say that,” I tell him.
The rest is Riccari quiet.
No speeches.
No panic.
No one hears anything except maybe a scuffle that the block files undernot my problem.
He goes still the way men go still when they finally understand what game they were playing and how far from winning they were.
I drag him into the shallow niche by the service door where shadows pile up after midnight and leave him with the city to cool.
I pick up the battery and toss it down a different grate, pocket the photo and the matchbook, and wipe the wall where his hand smeared sweat because I was taught to leave places cleaner than I found them.
On my way back to the street, I slide the knife from under the dumpster with my shoe and kick it into a drain where it belongs.
The night closes over it without ceremony.
