Page 87 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I don't tell Nico.
I tell myself I'm waiting to see if it happens again.
The truth sits under that.
I'm not sure what his face will do.
In his world, bloodlines are more than families and holidays.
They are a language that moves money and men.
The idea of becoming a sentence in that language makes me cold and hot at the same time.
I hate that my first instinct is to protect the quiet we have, not the answer we might need.
When I get off late, the sky is already flat and dark.
My phone buzzes once as I cross the street.
It's Nico, a simple check.
I’m outside.
I wave at the car I'm supposed to see and ignore the one I'm not.
He takes my bag at the curb and kisses my forehead like he is counting the beats under his mouth.
The ride home is quiet.
He asks if I ate. I lie and say yes.
He tells me there is soup on the stove.
I say good.
His place is warm.
The lamps are on.
The table is clear except for one thing I have not seen before.
A low, matte case sits in the center, the size of a briefcase, with a recessed handle and a lock that looks like it would rather be opened by code than by guess.
He has moved nothing else.
The starkness makes my shoulders go tense.
“What is that?” I ask.
He closes the door and sets the deadbolt.
He takes off his coat and does not fold it.
He does not come to me first.
He goes to the table and rests his hand on the case like he is still deciding how to say it.
“Something you may never need,” he says, voice even. “But if Marco makes his move, what’s inside might be the only thing keeping you alive.”
