Page 85 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

There are dates that look like dates.

He takes me to a pizza place with a coal oven that burns so hot the pies blister in ninety seconds.

We sit at the counter and share the one withsoppressataand honey.

He tells me to try it with a squeeze of lemon.

It works.

I laugh because he wins.

He grins like a man who did not sleep and steals my last bite.

I bake on nights when the city feels heavy, simple things that make the kitchen warm.

He cleans as I go, dries the bowl I will need before I reach for it, and shakes flour off the cat that wanders up from the courtyard and decides the best chair is his lap.

We find small jokes and keep them.

He calls my hospital clogs “combat shoes” and threatens to shine them before the Council dinner.

I tell him he is not allowed to touch anything that goes near my feet.

He insists on carrying my tote even when it holds nothing but a stethoscope and almonds.

I let him, then make him trade me the bag for a kiss at the crosswalk.

We don't talk about the safehouse unless the stove ticks and the room goes quiet.

Then we both look at the same spot on the wall and remember that it held.

There are cracks.

They show up in the silences and the glances at the phone.

He checks in with the trattoria, with the church, with two people whose names I don't need to know because they answer on the first ring.

He steps outside to take calls and comes back with the same face he uses when he lies to men who think they are smarter than he is.

He does not lie to me.

He just keeps it short.

Vendors questioned.

Car seen twice on Court Street.

Someone in Queens asking about cash flour orders.

He says it's manageable.

The word sits on the table between us while we eat.

The safehouse felt like a pause.

Here, every room has a clock.

The Council dinner is close enough to see on a calendar.