Page 168 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

Midday, Nico straps her into the carrier with the solemnity of an oath.

She disappears into his chest like a small king in a soft throne.

He puts his coat on over both of them and tucks her hat down until only eyes show.

“We are going outside to do something legal,” he tells her. “Brace yourself.”

He takes the trash, the list, and my heart with him.

I stand in the doorway and watch them go down the steps.

He looks back once, like he always does, and gives me the small look that saysit's all right.

I give him the one that saysyou have the best cargo.

They come back ten minutes later because he forgot the reusable bag.

He blames the baby.

She sneezes.

I hand him the bag and kiss his cheek and his hat and her forehead.

It's messy and perfect.

In the afternoon, I nap in a chair the way I told my patients never to do.

Lucia naps on my chest and makes small sounds like she is negotiating a treaty.

I dream of nothing.

I wake to soup.

Evening is the best.

The light in the kitchen goes gold.

The street gets busy in a way that is not interested in us.

Nico cooks the way he fights, without wasted motion.

Pasta with lemon.

Greens with garlic.

Bread that should have been eaten yesterday and tastes better for waiting.

He says this is proof of patience.

I say It's bread.

He says bread is patience.

We can both be right.

We eat at the table we once covered with evidence and names and plans.

Now it holds burp cloths and a stack of mail and the good salt.