Page 152 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Security is already behind him.
They aren’t loud.
They don’t need to be. He stands, tries to stand taller, fails. “Don,” he says, reaching for a scrap. “Family.”
“Exactly,” the Don says.
They walk him out.
The room exhales.
The men who backed him shrink a size and study their forks.
I stack my two pages and slide them back to my side of the table.
I didn’t bring them to leave them.
Souvenirs get you killed.
“Good,” the Don says.
He pours water.
He drinks.
He looks tired in the way the city gets after first snow.
“Now you, Nico. You look like a man who’s been up all night and not for fun. Say what you have to say.”
I don’t do speeches.
I do sentences.
“Once the house is clean, I step down as consigliere.”
The room goes silent in layers.
Surprise, calculation, fear, relief.
It all sits there like steam over pasta.
The Don studies me.
“You want to leave my table.”
“I want to live long enough to teach a kid to tie a shoe,” I say. “I’ll finish this work. I’ll put the books in order. Then I’m done. Youcan choose a new pair of eyes and a mouth that answers slower. The future should not sound like me.”
An old captain across the table lets out a small, amazed laugh.
“He says it like he’s ordering pastry. ‘I’ll have one exit, please.’”
I smile at him. “I can bringsfogliatelleto the last meeting. Sweetens the shock.”
The Don doesn’t smile.
Not yet.
He looks at the papers again.
