Chapter 12 Nico
NICO
Two days later, evening
I’m taking Elisa out tonight.
I pick her up at the side door of the bakery.
No lights.
Coat over her shoulders.
Hair pulled back.
I open the passenger door and keep the street in the corner of my eye.
We don't talk on the drive.
She watches the mirrors the way I do.
Good.
The trattoria sits on a narrow block behind a hardware store.
No sign. A single light in the entry and a buzzer you have to know about.
I press it.
The lock clicks.
Inside, the room is small and warm.
Red tile floor.
Old wood tables.
No music.
Only voices and plates.
The walls are lined with black-and-white photos of my people.
Weddings.
Baptisms.
Funerals.
The same faces across decades.
Add a child.
Lose an uncle.
Keep the line.
The owner’s wife comes from the kitchen and kisses my cheek.
She kisses Elisa too and calls her bella.
No questions.
A table in the back corner is already set.
Two plates.
A carafe of red.
A bottle of mineral water.
I seat Elisa facing the wall of photos.
My back takes the room.
“You grew up in places like this,” she says.
“I grew up in this one.” I pour her wine and water for myself. “Eat. They brought the good stuff.”
We start with grilled artichokes and white beans with rosemary.
Then thin slices of prosciutto and warm bread.
She tries the beans first, nods once, and smiles.
Real.
The knot in my chest lets out a notch.
Her eyes keep going to the photos.
I let her look.
She points at a framed shot over her shoulder.
Men in dark suits outside a church in winter.
Coats open.
Hands bare.
“That one?”
“Christmas Eve. Before midnight mass. A long time ago.” I take a piece of bread. “We used to meet every year. The Dons of the five boroughs. No drivers. No soldiers. Just heads. We called it the Christmas Eve Council.”
“What did you do there?”
“Closed the books on the year. Settled disputes. Drew lines. Gave warnings. Announced marriages and business. Said what would be forgiven and what would not. Then we went to church and shook hands in front of God and everybody. The next day, the rules stood.”
She is quiet.
She is listening.
I keep my voice even.
“This year, we meet again. Smaller table. Fewer friends. Marco Santangelo will sit at it. He wants to prove a point. He thinks the old ways are soft. Half the room will watch me and wait to see which side I choose.”
Her fork pauses.
“Which side do you choose?”
“The one that keeps my people alive.” I hold her eyes for a breath. “The one that keeps you breathing.”
The primi arrives.
Spaghetti al limone for her.
Cacio e pepe for me.
I twirl one forkful and feel my stitches pull.
Fine.
I eat slowly.
She takes a bite, and I watch her face go from cautious to pleased.
She hides it with a sip of wine.
I let it pass.
“You tell me history,” she says. “But you never say your part in it.”
“My part is simple.” I set my fork down. “I show up. I listen. I speak when it matters. I pay what I owe. I make sure the Riccari name stays clean enough to keep doors open. Not clean. Open.”
She leans in.
“And if Marco pushes?”
“Then we push back.” I refill her glass. “There is a right way to keep a city from burning. He has never learned it.”
The door opens behind me.
Two men enter.
Suits that fit.
Hair too sharp.
They sit at the next table.
One keeps his head down and checks his phone.
The other keeps his head up.
His eyes work the room and come to rest on us.
He is not family.
I switch to Italian without changing my face.
“Sorridi e mangia. Non guardare a sinistra.”
She understands.
Of course she does.
She lifts her fork.
She smiles like she has no idea why I'm speaking Italian and keeps eating.
I wipe my mouth.
I don't look left.
The secondi arrive.
Branzino with lemon and capers for her.
Veal with sage for me.
The man at the next table lowers his eyes when the plates hit.
He says something low to his friend and stands.
He walks to the restroom.
His friend follows after a minute.
I relax a notch and cut into the veal.
Elisa watches me. “You think they followed us.”
“They followed me.” I take another bite. “It's fine.”
“You always say that.”
“I only say it when it's true.”
She gives me a look that says she will decide for herself.
She tastes the fish and closes her eyes for a second.
She opens them and nods toward the photos again.
“Tell me more about the Council.”
“Some years were quiet. Some years drew blood. The old men knew how to keep both inside a room. You spoke plainly. You did not posture. If you were wrong, you paid. If you broke a promise, you sat next to the door the next year. If you broke a truce, you did not come back.”
“And this year?”
“This year, everyone brings a knife under the coat and calls it tradition.” I sip water. “I will bring proof instead. Names. Ledgers. A path that does not end with mothers burying sons. If they want war after that, they own it.”
She sits back.
“You think they will listen to you.”
“They will listen because they like money and quiet streets. They will listen because they remember my father. They will listen because I will not let them pretend ignorance.”
Dessert appears without asking.
A small plate of cannoli and a dish of sliced oranges with olive oil and salt.
The owner’s wife taps my shoulder and tells me to eat more.
She kisses Elisa on the head.
My throat tightens for a second.
I push it down and split a cannolo with Elisa.
She laughs when the shell breaks.
I dust the sugar from her sleeve.
Normal.
Good.
The men from the next table never come back.
The door opens and closes once.
The room stays calm.
I pay in cash and leave a tip inside the folded bill.
I thank the kitchen.
The owner’s wife presses a paper bag into Elisa’s hands.
Biscotti for later.
She tells her to sleep and drink water.
We step out into the night.
The street is quiet, air clear.
I put my hand at the small of her back and guide her to the car.
My phone vibrates.
A number I know.
I answer.
“Talk.”
“Boss, we have a problem.” A low voice I trust. “Two agents were at St. Adrian’s an hour ago. Not Sunday clothes. Badges out. They questioned the maintenance crew and staff.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Are they still there?”
“No. But they said they would be back in the morning. They left a card. They asked about you.”
“Keep the card. Say nothing. Move anyone who needs moving. Lock the side doors.”
I hang up and look at Elisa.
She is watching my face.
She knows enough to wait.
“What is it?” she says.
“The FBI was at St. Adrian’s. They will be back.”
She draws a slow breath and nods.
No panic.
No noise.
Good.
I open the car door for her and scan the block again.
The trattoria door closes behind us.
The lights in the windows go soft.
I get in, start the engine, and pull away from the curb.
Dinner was for peace.
The call is for war.
I keep my hands steady on the wheel.