Page 99 of Rosetti Family New York

“How much product did we lose?” he asks, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. “Tell me we don’t have a situation.”

“We’re still assessing.” I put my cup down. It clinks loud and hard against the table. “It doesn’t look good.”

We sit like that, the three of us, until my patience frays. I should be long gone, already out on business, fixing the shitstorm that rained down last night. But I need to make sure she’s okay. She should have been downstairs with us an hour ago.

I push back, my chair scraping against the floor, as I rest my elbows on the table.

“Rafe, call Clara. Make sure she’s calm. Tell her we’ll secure more product. Milo, secure a new storage location. We can’t go back to 12th Street.”

“And you?” Rafe asks. “You just gonna sit around here moping?”

Tension is tight inside me, and I leap to my feet, fists up, ready to release it.

Then I see her, and my arms fall to my sides. Her dark hair sleek against her cheek. Her dress an armor of high fashion and sharper lines. She’s perfect, not a hair out of place, like she didn’t spend the night dodging bullets.

“Good morning.” Her voice is calm and controlled, but her eyes hold mine longer than they need to. The slightest hint of a smile, there and gone. It feels like she’s pulled a pin from my chest. Like it’s only now that I start breathing.

“You’re late,” I say, the words slipping out before I can measure them.

Her eyebrow arches ever so slightly. She’s surprised I care enough to say it and even more surprised that I show it. I see it in her eyes, the careful way they consider me, the slight cock of her head.

I want to say more, say everything that teeters on the edge of spilling out. Instead, I bite it back and watch silently as she sits across from me. She picks up a coffee cup, and for a moment, I imagine it’s a shield she’s raising between us. She sniffs it cautiously and wrinkles her nose.

“Problem with the coffee?” I ask.

“What?” she says, catching my stare and holding it this time. “It’s not from Bell & Fig. But it’s fine, I’ll drink it.”

“Bell & Fig?” The way she speaks it makes me want to know. Makes me want to taste this life she’s letting me glimpse.

Her shoulders lift in a graceful shrug. “It’s this little place down in Soho, tucked off Mercer Street. They do the cutest little fig pastries, not to mention the best coffee in the known universe.”

I seize it like a lifeline. “Let’s go,” I say.

The words tumble out fast, decisive, before I have a chance to second-guess myself. I stride around the table, all urgency and desperation, taking the cup from her hands. It’s porcelain andalmost weightless. I set it on the wooden surface, scraping out her chair, drawing her into this impulsive plan.

As I pull her to her feet, her eyebrow arches even higher.

“Don’t you have work?” she asks.

I have plenty. A morning full of phone calls, locations to secure, and drugs to move. Figuring out who the fuck leaked the location of the warehouse. I have a house full of impatient brothers who will notice my absence and know exactly what it means. I should tell her yes, tell her I’m swamped and let her watch me leave, but I can’t do it. Not after last night. Not after coming so close to losing her.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” I say, and we go.

It’s raining harder now. The streets glisten under gray clouds, and people scurry under umbrellas. My car slips through them like a ghost. I left the driver behind so I could have my wife all to myself. She sits next to me, silent. Much calmer than last night, when she shivered in my arms for the whole long ride home and kept right on shivering in bed until she fell asleep in my arms.

We’re at Bell & Fig in record time. The shop has a little round sign hanging over its red door, and the windows are streaked with rain. Inside, it’s warm and sweet-scented, the air filled with coffee and cinnamon. I see what she likes about it right away. It’s cozy and chic, full of little tables and chairs that look like they came out of some vintage magazine. The walls are brick and lined with shelves, all crammed with books and board games. A couple of students huddle over laptops in the corner, and an old man with a newspaper reads at the window.

Brightly-colored flyers paper the walls near the entrance. Art shows. Live music. Poetry readings. I take it all in, and I’m sure we stand out like wolves in a meadow. But it doesn’t matter, because I have her here, and she looks happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her.

Baristas behind the counter bustle in matching aprons, chatting with customers like they’re old friends.

A girl with short blue hair beams at us and says, “Hi guys! What can I get started for you today?”

I look at Besiana, letting her take the lead. She orders like she’s a regular.

“Two noirs,” she says. “And a half dozen of those little fig pastries.” Her eyes flicker to mine like she’s asking, Is that okay?

I nod, and it feels like I’m nodding to much more than coffee and food. It’s a nod to this—whatever this is between us—and the fact that I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The girl rings us up, and I pull out cash before Besiana can reach for her purse.