Page 18 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The coffee arrives in a chipped white mug that has been washed a thousand times.
She hands it over with a nod like we are two people at a kitchen table learning each other without saying the part that would ruin it.
It's strong and clean and takes the bitterness from the back of my tongue.
“You make much of very little,” I say, appreciative.
“Bakers learn that young,” she replies, and she leans back against the counter across from me, ankles crossed, mug in both hands.
Her gaze runs over me the way mine ran over her earlier.
Not greedy.
Not shy.
As if she is trying on a truth to see if it fits.
“What do you do?” she asks, and it's so simple a question, it almost makes me laugh.
You don't ask wolves if they enjoy running.
“I give advice,” I say, because it's not a lie.
“To whom?” she asks, curious against her better judgment.
“To men who like to think they are in charge,” I answer, and I let the corner of my mouth lift just enough to keep it light. “And who are sometimes correct.”
“Are you a lawyer?” she asks, biting the edge of her mug to hide a smile.
“Close,” I say. “I'm someone they listen to.”
Her eyes flick down to my ribs where the lion sleeps under tape, then up again with a neat, private acknowledgement.
She catalogs, then files it undernotmy problem, and earns my loyalty faster than any oath.
She hesitates then, a small intake of breath that moves the air.
Her lips part.
I know what the question will be before she asks it.
Who shot you?
It's the first question everyone wants to ask when they see a hole.
It matters and it does not.
In my world, the answer is never a person.
It's a principle.
Loyalty offended.
Territory misread.
Old debt called in.
Sometimes, the name matters.
