Page 54 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Elisa is where I told her to be, under the light of the bakery’s awning, hands in her coat pockets, doing a good impression of a woman who has always stood outside closed shops at one in the morning because some nights ask that of you.
Her face is pale.
Her chin is set.
She does not ask me if I'm alright.
She looks at my hands first.
When she sees they are empty, she lets out the breath she was holding.
“Okay,” she says.
One word.
Enough room in it for the next ten questions.
She takes a half-step toward me and stops herself like she made a deal with her pride five minutes ago and intends to honor it.
“Back,” I say, flicking my chin at the door. “Now.”
She turns, pulls her keys, and unlocks with neat fingers that don't shake.
I put my shoulder to the gate and ease it up so it will not shriek a warning to the block.
We slip in.
I drop the gate and throw the inner deadbolt, then cross to the side door and set the chain.
My hands move without thinking, measuring every edge, checking the board gaps for new light.
Elisa tracks me with her eyes the way a resident tracks a senior surgeon, ready to hand over whatever tool I name.
“From now on, you don’t go anywhere without me,” I say.
I don't raise my voice.
It still fills the room.
“Excuse me,” she says, folding her arms, coat pulling at the shoulders.
The bakery holds our words and warms them. “I go to work. I go home. I don't need a chaperone.”
“You need a shadow you can trust,” I say.
I rest my hand on the counter and lean in enough that she feels the wall of it. “This is not a precaution. A man with a photo of you followed us tonight. That is not a coincidence.”
“Don't say it like I did not notice,” she fires back. “don't say it like I have not been living with my head on a swivel since you left a flower on my bed and a siren on my street.”
“That was to keep you sleeping while I moved a problem off your block,” I say.
“Tonight is a different kind of problem. Marco is feeding the Bureau. Boys who are loyal to Marco still think loyalty is a weapon. They will try to scare you into a mistake. They will fail if you let me do my job.”
She steps closer, heat off her that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with fear she refuses to badge.
“Your job,” she says. “Your job seems to be making decisions for me that I don't get to be awake for.”
“I'm making the decision that keeps you breathing,” I say. “Everything else we can argue through breakfast.”
