Page 68 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Two mugs on the rack.
A plant that needs water.
He locks the door and tests the window latches.
I set water to boil because my body needs something plain to do.
“Tell me everything,” I say. “No gloss.”
He takes the chair that faces the door.
I stay standing, palms on the counter.
“Omertà is not a slogan,” he says. “It's how we have stayed standing for a hundred years. The minute people start talking, the crews turn on each other. Workers disappear. Cops kick doors. Mothers bury kids. Silence is not romance. It's survival.”
“Survival for whom,” I ask, “when bodies hit pavement?”
“For everyone who is left if we don't let the floor drop,” he says. “It's ugly. It's also true.”
Steam rises.
I pour tea.
He does not touch the cup.
His eyes stay on me.
“The Feds will not come at you straight,” he says. “They will try a soft door. They will ask about me, then about the bakery, then about people who buy bread at the bakery, then about patients you see who might know any of them. They will use first names. They will say they already know. They will ask you to confirm. You say nothing. Not about me. Not about my business. If they push, you ask for counsel. You call me. You call the lawyer whose number I will leave in your phone.”
“My work has laws,” I say. “HIPAA is not a suggestion. I don't play games with charts. If they have a subpoena, the hospital handles it.”
“Good,” he says. “Follow the law for your patients. Follow silence for me. If they mix those on purpose, you stop the meeting.”
The tea is too hot.
I sip anyway.
“I hate that this is where we are,” I say. “I'm a nurse. I'm trained to tell the truth cleanly and keep people alive. Your rules are built to hide damage.”
“My rules are built to prevent more damage than I can count,” he says. “That does not make them kind. It makes them necessary.”
The truth lands hard.
I feel it in my shoulders, not my chest.
He reads my face and stands.
He does not reach for me right away.
He waits at arm’s length and gives me his eyes without any guard.
“I will not use you,” he says. “I want you safe. I want my people safe. Those two things don't have to fight every hour of the day.”
I step in and kiss him.
Not to erase anything.
To hold the line we have.
