13. The Dinner #2
The women's restroom is three feet to my left.
I push the door open with my elbow. Drag him inside by the jacket collar.
His shoes leave two faint streaks on the tile.
Inside, the restroom is small. Two stalls, a sink, a mirror.
I pull him into the second stall. Lift him onto the toilet.
It takes effort. I brace my legs, use my back, lever his dead weight onto the seat.
He slumps but the stall walls hold him upright, his head against the partition, the jacket still bunched over his face.
I close the stall door. Lock it from the inside by reaching over the top. My arms are long enough. Barely.
The Glock is in the hallway. I step out, pick it up, bring it back. Tuck it into his jacket. His blood is pooling on the tile inside the stall. It won't be visible from outside. The door reaches to within an inch of the floor.
I check the hallway. Two streaks of blood on the tile, thin, faint. I grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, wet them at the sink, wipe the hallway floor in four fast passes. The streaks disappear. The paper towels go into the trash bin inside the women's restroom.
I check myself. Blood on my right hand, the knuckles, between the fingers. A single drop on my left wrist. Nothing on my dress. Nothing on my face. The black cotton doesn't show stains in low light.
I wash my hands. Hot water. Soap. The blood dissolves. I wash my wrist. Dry my hands. The knife goes back to my thigh, cleaned on paper towels first. The buckle clicks.
Mirror. I look at my reflection. Hair slightly displaced from the exertion, a strand falling across my forehead. I tuck it behind my ear. Adjust my glasses. The girl in the mirror looks like a woman who went to the restroom during dinner. Nothing more.
I step into the hallway. The jazz trio has moved on to a new song. Something with piano now. Light, floating, the kind of music that makes people order another bottle of wine.
The restroom door opens behind me.
Niccolo.
He steps into the hallway, adjusting his cufflinks, the automatic gesture of a man who checks his appearance in the mirror after washing his hands. He sees me.
"Hey," he says. "I was just coming back."
"Me too."
We walk to the table together. He pulls my chair out. I sit. He sits. The paccheri is cold. The wine is warm. The candle between us has burned down a centimeter.
"Did I miss anything?" he asks.
I pick up my fork. Twirl a pacchero. Lift it to my mouth.
"Just the bread basket," I say.
He laughs. The full one, the one that changes his face. He reaches across the table, takes a piece of bread, tears it in half, offers me the larger piece. I take it.
The third course arrives. Grilled orata with capers, olives, cherry tomatoes that burst when the fork presses them. The chef comes out to check on us. Niccolo tells him the meal is extraordinary. The chef beams. I smile. The jazz trio plays.
In the women's restroom, a man sits on a toilet with his throat open and his jacket over his face.
He will be found by a busboy or a dishwasher or the cleaning crew at the end of the night.
The police will come. They will check the security cameras, which cover the dining room but not the hallway.
They will interview the staff, who will remember the couple at the corner table, a man with silver temples and a woman in a black dress.
The man with silver temples will not be connected because men with silver temples eat at Posillipo restaurants every night.
The woman in the black dress will not be connected because nobody remembers the quiet ones.
Plus the fact that we stayed and enjoyed the full meal instead of leaving right away will steer suspicion from us.
I eat my fish. Niccolo tells me about a monastery in Amalfi he wants to take me to. I tell him I've never been south of Salerno. He says this is unacceptable. I say many things about my life are unacceptable. He doesn't know what I mean. I didn't intend him to.
The check comes. He pays. We leave.
In the car, he reaches across the console, takes my hand. Lifts it to his mouth. Kisses the knuckles. The same knuckles that were covered in another man's blood forty minutes ago.
"Thank you for tonight," he says.
"You're welcome."
"I mean it. I needed this."
I lace my fingers through his. Squeeze once.
He drives me home through Naples. The city is alive, burning through the night with the energy of a place that doesn't believe in endings. He parks outside my building. Walks me to the door. Stands too close. His breath on my forehead.
"Buonanotte, Valentina."
"Buonanotte, Niccolo."
He waits until I'm inside. I hear the Alfa Romeo pull away. The engine note fading down the narrow street until it's gone.
I lean against the inside of my door. Close my eyes.
I saved his life tonight. In the time it took him to wash his hands, I identified a threat, neutralized it, disposed of the body, cleaned the scene, returned to the table, and picked up my fork.
He will never know.
The cut on my thigh throbs once. Not the ritual cut. The knife's resting place, the buckle, pressing against the scar tissue. A reminder. A heartbeat from a different organ.
I push off the door, walk to the kitchen and pour a glass of water.
I know this wasn’t an ordered it, but I took a life regardless. It’s better to be safe than sorry.
I wash the glass, set it on the drying rack and prepare for the ritual.