Page 90 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The way the street goes quieter around him is its own introduction.
“Elisa,” Nico says.
He keeps his voice low. “Why are you avoiding me?”
I straighten and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
The air tastes like cold and old coffee.
He is dressed in a dark coat with the collar turned up.
His eyes take in everything.
My hands.
My face.
The door behind me.
“I’m on lunch,” I say. “I need to get back.”
“That is not an answer.”
His hand hovers near my elbow.
He does not touch me.
He waits.
I try to find a line that is true and does not open the door I'm not ready to walk through.
“I'm tired,” I say. “Work has been ugly. I'm trying to be smart.”
He holds my eyes for one count, two.
He knows I'm skirting.
He also knows better than to push me in the street.
“Come by later,” he says. “We will eat. You can sleep.”
“I have a late finish,” I say. “I will text.”
He nods once.
His face is set in that careful line he uses when he is carrying more than he will say.
He looks past me into the bistro and then back.
“Do you need a ride?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Go.”
He waits one more second, then does what I ask and walks away.
I watch his back until the crowd folds around him.
My stomach loosens.
