Page 163 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
She doesn’t have to.
Her fist opens, slow, like she just remembered she grabbed something and forgot what.
I slide a finger into it.
She keeps it.
28
ELISA
The baby has opinions about three things—milk, sleep, and Nico’s shirt.
Milk is yes.
Sleep is a debate.
Nico’s shirt is a napkin.
Morning starts at a time that would insult roosters.
The radiator is doing its old song.
The window shows a square of sky that looks like the city boiled it clean and put it back.
I'm in yesterday’s sweater and a braid that has lost the plot.
The baby is tucked in the crook of my arm, warm and heavy and smelling like powdered sugar and soap.
Nico is in the kitchen, bare feet, sweats, the serious face he gets when he’s doing something simple like it might be the last thing he gets to do right.
Coffee, eggs, fruit.
He glances over and the look is not the look he gives rooms or men or ledgers.
It's the one he gives us.
“We slept,” he says, like he is telling a judge we did something noble.
“We blinked,” I say.
He sets a plate down for me, then a smaller one with half a banana that he insists the baby will not eat but will admire.
She does not admire it.
She frowns at the yellow curve like it owes her money.
Nico moves the banana to a respectful distance.
Her name is Lucia, though she answers to everything.
Lu, Luce, Bee, Tiny Boss.
We picked it in the quiet, just us, no speeches, no saints.
A name that fits in the mouth when you are happy and when you are scared.
We told almost no one.
