Page 64 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
“That one?”
“Christmas Eve. Before midnight mass. A long time ago.” I take a piece of bread. “We used to meet every year. The Dons of the five boroughs. No drivers. No soldiers. Just heads. We called it the Christmas Eve Council.”
“What did you do there?”
“Closed the books on the year. Settled disputes. Drew lines. Gave warnings. Announced marriages and business. Said what would be forgiven and what would not. Then we went to church and shook hands in front of God and everybody. The next day, the rules stood.”
She is quiet.
She is listening.
I keep my voice even.
“This year, we meet again. Smaller table. Fewer friends. Marco Santangelo will sit at it. He wants to prove a point. He thinks the old ways are soft. Half the room will watch me and wait to see which side I choose.”
Her fork pauses.
“Which side do you choose?”
“The one that keeps my people alive.” I hold her eyes for a breath. “The one that keeps you breathing.”
Theprimiarrives.
Spaghetti al limonefor her.
Cacio e pepefor me.
I twirl one forkful and feel my stitches pull.
Fine.
I eat slowly.
She takes a bite, and I watch her face go from cautious to pleased.
She hides it with a sip of wine.
I let it pass.
“You tell me history,” she says. “But you never say your part in it.”
“My part is simple.” I set my fork down. “I show up. I listen. I speak when it matters. I pay what I owe. I make sure the Riccari name stays clean enough to keep doors open. Not clean. Open.”
She leans in.
“And if Marco pushes?”
“Then we push back.” I refill her glass. “There is a right way to keep a city from burning. He has never learned it.”
The door opens behind me.
Two men enter.
Suits that fit.
Hair too sharp.
They sit at the next table.
