Page 63 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The walls are lined with black-and-white photos of my people.
Weddings.
Baptisms.
Funerals.
The same faces across decades.
Add a child.
Lose an uncle.
Keep the line.
The owner’s wife comes from the kitchen and kisses my cheek.
She kisses Elisa too and calls herbella.
No questions.
A table in the back corner is already set.
Two plates.
A carafe of red.
A bottle of mineral water.
I seat Elisa facing the wall of photos.
My back takes the room.
“You grew up in places like this,” she says.
“I grew up in this one.” I pour her wine and water for myself. “Eat. They brought the good stuff.”
We start with grilled artichokes and white beans with rosemary.
Then thin slices of prosciutto and warm bread.
She tries the beans first, nods once, and smiles.
Real.
The knot in my chest lets out a notch.
Her eyes keep going to the photos.
I let her look.
She points at a framed shot over her shoulder.
Men in dark suits outside a church in winter.
Coats open.
Hands bare.
