Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty Eight
Elena
The table is too small for all our bags, which feels like a good problem to have. Paper handles loop over the chair backs; tissue sticks out of bags from half a dozen boutiques.
Every time I shift my knee, something rustles—a stack of white onesies, the softest swaddle with a faint star print, a tiny ribbed sleeper in sage that Caterina talked me into buying.
There’s a narrow box with a nursing bra I tried not to blush over and a long cream cardigan that drapes in a forgiving way over the growing curve of my stomach.
We found two dresses that make room for what’s coming while being subtle. I didn’t realize until I tried them on how much I needed clothes that don’t pinch.
The restaurant is alive with late-lunch energy: clink of glass, a low buzz of conversation, cutlery sliding on plates. Light pours through the tall windows and throws bright rectangles across the floor; outside, the trees along the sidewalk are full and green, the sky that high, unreal blue.
It’s the kind of day that begs for an outdoor sidewalk table and a slow hour. We’re inside and against the wall instead; inside, by Nico’s decree. I told myself it didn’t matter. The sun still finds us here.
“Grilled branzino or pasta?” Caterina asks, eyeing her menu.
“Branzino,” I say. “And the fennel salad.” My body wants bright, clean things today.
She orders the carbonara and a plate of roasted carrots for the table and adds sparkling water with lemon for both of us before I can open my mouth.
The server smiles and moves away; in the corner, the host seats a couple with a stroller.
I can’t stop myself from looking. The baby is asleep, tiny mouth open, fists up by its ears.
A small ache blooms under my ribs, want and fear wound tight. I reach for my glass.
Nico is three tables behind us, back to the wall, pretending to check his phone.
He’s dressed like a man having lunch alone—dark jacket, no tie, nothing flashy—but he is not having lunch.
When I glance right, I catch the second guard at the bar watching the door in the large mirror, and the third by the service station, pretending to read a wine list.
I can’t see the two outside, but I know they’re there, somewhere in the slow foot traffic, talking quietly into the mics tucked at their collars. The knowledge presses at the edges of my calm. I swallow it down and focus on Caterina’s voice.
“You sure about the crib style?” she asks, tapping a photo on her phone I sent her earlier this morning. “Solid wood is good, but soft-close drawers on the dresser are non-negotiable. You’ll thank me at 3:00 in the morning.”
“I wrote it down,” I say, and I really did, eager to consider any piece of advice.
The sparkling water arrives with a bowl of olives and a plate of bread. The server leaves a dish of chilled crudités and a little ramekin of whipped ricotta with honey. I take a carrot and drag it through the ricotta. It’s cold, sweet, creamy, exactly what I wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.
“So,” Caterina says, resting her chin in her hand. “We got sleepers, the belly band, the cardigan that makes you look like a rich art teacher, and those low-top sneakers we can pretend aren’t for your swollen feet.”
“Allegedly,” I say.
“Lawyers,” she says and snorts. “Plus, three maternity dresses that you won’t admit you love.”
“They’re comfortable,” I insist, but that’s all.
“You absolutely preened.” She lifts one brow. “That navy wrap one? You love it.”
I picture it again, the way the crossed fabric flattered my growing belly—and boobs—and I can’t help the small lift in my chest. “I did like that one.”
“You glowed,” she says. “And I’m not putting that on hormones. It was the dress.”
I look down at the napkin spread over my lap and smooth a crease that isn’t there. “Thank you. For coming with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says, simple and sure. “This is the fun part.”
The plates arrive fast: the salad, shaved fennel and a scatter of citrus that smells fresh and sweet; the branzino, skin crisp, lemon set on the side; Caterina’s pasta, glossy and peppery, steam rising.
She slides the carrots between us and forks one onto my plate without asking.
I don’t mind. The fish flakes under my fork; I squeeze lemon and take a bite, and my shoulders drop an inch. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s delicious.
Outside, a dog trots past, tongue lolling, owner talking into a headset.
A delivery truck hisses to a stop down the block.
I can see a strip of blue sky in the window and can practically feel the breeze and warmth on my skin.
I wish we were out there, shaded by an umbrella.
I wish there weren’t eyes on us at every angle.
I wish the simple act of eating lunch wasn’t a small operation.
Nico catches my gaze and tips his chin, a question without words. I nod: fine. He looks past me to the bar, then to the door, then back to his phone. I put my fork down and take one deliberate breath.
“It’s pretty,” Caterina says, following my eyes to the window. “We’ll sit outside next time.”
“Promise?” I ask, light.
“Promise,” she says, and steals a bite of my fennel. “It won’t be like this forever.”
“I hope not,” I whisper. “I don’t think I can live like this all the time.”
“You’ll always need protection, Elena,” she says. “But it’ll be like before, unseen and uninterfering. Nico is good at that.”
“I believe it.” I sip water. “He’s good at hovering without hovering.”
“Years of practice,” she says. “And he likes you.”
“I like him too,” I admit. “Even when he makes me sit inside on the nicest day of the month.”
She flashes a grin. “We’ll hold it against him later.”
We eat, and I let the normalness of it do its work.
Fork, bite, sip. Every so often, I feel that squeeze in my chest, the one that says this is temporary, this safety, this daylight, this ordinary.
But it loosens when I think about the bags under the table.
The tiny sage sleeper. The starry swaddle. The navy dress I did, yes, preen in.
Nico’s voice cuts through the low sounds of the room. Not loud but hard. “Move.”
I look over. He’s on his feet already, chair back angled where it scraped.
Phone to his ear, eyes up. The men at the bar and service station are moving too, napkins dropped, checks untouched.
The room hasn’t caught it yet. No one else hears the tone except the people paid to.
My napkin is still in my lap when he reaches our table.
“What—?” slips out of me.
“Up,” he says to both of us, low. “Now.”
Caterina’s fork is down in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
“Call came in,” Nico says, not slowing. He’s already sweeping the tabletop with one hand—keys, my phone, Caterina’s phone—pushing them toward me. “We’re leaving.”
“Our bags—” I start, as he starts pulling me up by the elbow.
“Leave them,” Nico snaps. He palms my shoulder and steers, Caterina tucked tight to my other side.
The server approaches, confused, a tentative, “Is everything—”
The guard from the bar, Sal, steps into his path and shakes his head once. The server blinks, obeys the unspoken command.
We’re angled to the back hallway in three steps. The restaurant noise dips as we walk farther away from the dining room. I keep my head down and my feet moving. The second guard from inside, Marc, ghosts in behind us, hand barely touching Caterina’s elbow to keep her pace with mine.
“What happened?” Caterina asks again, lower this time.
“Later,” Nico says without looking back. “Head down.”
We make the turn past the bathrooms. The corridor is narrow and dim compared to the main room, a strip of light at the far end where a steel door sits propped with a wedge.
“Two outside?” Nico says into his mic.
“Both in place,” a voice answers. “Alley is clear. Car in position.”
“Copy.”
We hit the door. He shifts, puts himself in front, hand out and down in a stop sign. He leans into the wedge to look. A heartbeat. Two. He opens his stance and waves us through.
The brightness hits us hard and nearly blinds me. We step into a narrow delivery alley that runs behind the row of restaurants. Dumpster. Stacked milk crates. The street beyond is a slice of color and motion and a whole different world.
“Keep your head down,” Marc tells me. He positions me on the inside, himself between me and the open mouth of the alley. Caterina is ahead of me with Nico, moving fast, hair dark against the light.
“Go,” Nico says. “Left to the corner. Car is there.”
We move.
My flats skid once on a grease-dark patch, and I catch myself with a hand against the brick.
The lemon from lunch is still on my fingers; it collides with the smell of the alley, and my stomach lurches.
I breathe through my mouth. My heart bangs against my ribs.
I know this feeling, adrenaline surging within me.
We reach the last ten feet before the sidewalk, open space, no cover. “Ready,” Nico says. I see the SUV, black, engine running, nose angled toward the street, rear passenger door already cracked.
“On three,” Nico says.
He doesn’t get to three.
The sound is smaller than I would’ve imagined. Just a hard crack and then the clang of metal. The edge of the steel door beside my head vibrates. Paint spits off at cheek level.
For a second, the whole world shrinks to that ragged nick in the metal. That could have been my face. That was supposed to be my face. The realization slams into me and turns everything white-hot and fast.
“Down!” Nico’s voice, sharp enough to cut. He yanks Caterina to a crouch, one hand shoving her behind a stack of milk crates, his own body blocking the alley mouth.
Marc drives me to my knees before my brain catches up, hand cupped over the back of my head. My palm hits the gritty concrete, and I pull my belly in by instinct as I fold, making myself small. A second crack, then the skitter of brick dust ten inches from my shoe.