Chapter 12 #2
She considered it. “It looks more intelligent than him.”
We both laughed.
Olimpo lifted his head at the sound. Angela found a sheet of gold paper in her pen box.
“Does he need a crown, do you think?”
“He absolutely does not. Let’s make him one, anyway!”
Five minutes later, Olimpo wore a crooked paper crown between his thick eyebrows. It rested over one ear. He looked ancient, offended, and vaguely royal.
“This is humiliating,” I told him.
His tail moved once.
Angela placed a biscuit in front of him.
Olimpo ate the crown.
We stared.
Then Angela laughed so hard she folded over herself. I joined her. The sound came out of me before I could decide whether it was safe. It filled the room. It made my stomach hurt.
Sal stood in the doorway.
I saw him only after I had wiped tears from the corners of my eyes.
He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His gaze moved from the demolished crown to the icing on my fingers, then to my face.
“You look as though you’re doing a little better,” he said.
“I have been making political statements through pastry. It’s very empowering.”
“I can see that.” His mouth shifted. “Go change, little one.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“I’m taking you out.”
“Out where?”
“On a date. Ever heard of them?” His eyes warmed. “Apparently people do those before declaring eternal devotion.”
Heat climbed up my throat.
“A date?” I asked, quietly.
Angela gave me a look over the top of her coloring book.
“Go,” she said. “Wear something you chose.”
I stood too fast, suddenly nervous in a way no strategy meeting had ever made me.
“I’ll come find you,” Sal said. “Get ready.”
Sal knocked on my door like he did not own half the rooms in the house.
I had changed three times.
The first dress had looked too much like a Sokolov daughter. The second had looked too much like I was trying to seduce him before we reached the car. The third was dark green, long-sleeved, fitted at the waist, with a skirt that moved around my knees when I walked.
I had chosen it because I liked it. Not because of my father, not because the strict codes of an occasion required it.
For me.
That still felt radical.
When I opened the door, Sal stood there with a single flower in his hand.
Not roses. Not diamonds. Not some expensive thing meant to tell me what I owed him.
One white ranunculus.
“For you,” he said.
I took it carefully. I looked at the flower.
“It’s very pretty.”
“I thought so.”
I put it to my nose. It smelled clean and faintly green.
Then I realized Sal was looking at me.
“That dress is fantastic.”
The heat in my face was ridiculous. I had worn couture worth more than small apartments in rooms full of men who wanted something from my father.
One sincere compliment from Salvatore Scordato, and I forgot what to do with my hands.
“You look . . . acceptable too,” I said.
His mouth curved. “High praise.”
The nearby town sat twenty minutes away, all dark roads and bare trees and lakeside cottages with yellow windows. Sal drove. No driver. No convoy pressed visibly around us.
I knew guards were there. I saw the distant headlights once in the mirror. But he had made them fade into the background.
The building looked closed from the street. An old diner joined to an arcade, its neon sign dark except for one red letter that flickered weakly.
Sal unlocked the door.
Inside, arcade machines hummed in rows beneath low colored lights. The diner booths were empty. A jukebox stood near the back wall. The air smelled of fryer oil, old carpet, and sweetness from a popcorn machine.
I stopped just inside.
“You rented an arcade.”
“I hired it privately for the evening.”
“For me?”
“Who else would I take? Tonio would cheat and then get emotional about the prizes.”
“That is probably true.”
Sal put a small cup of tokens into my palm.
“I should warn you,” I said, “I’m extremely competitive.”
“Yeah, I kind of thought as much.”
“Yes but you have no idea.”
The first game was air hockey.
I scored in the first six seconds.
Sal looked at the puck in his goal. “That was unsporting.”
“In the air hockey world, we call it effecient.”
He leaned over the table. “Again.”
The second round lasted longer. He learned my angle quickly. I slammed the puck off the sidewall and watched it skim past his hand.
“Two-zero,” I said.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
By the fourth round, I was sweating beneath my dress. Sal had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. His eyes were narrowed. His mouth had gone serious in a way that should not have been attractive over air hockey.
I feinted left.
He moved.
I sent the puck right.
It hit the goal with a triumphant plastic clack.
“Yes,” I shouted.
Sal stared at me.
“Did you just yell?”
“I was expressing confidence.”
“You yelled yes.”
“I won.”
“You did.”
I lifted my chin. “Say it.”
“You won.”
“Say I’m better at air hockey.”
He put both hands flat against the table.
“You are better at air hockey. My god, give me strength with this woman.”
“Good boy.”
He gave me a look that I swear nearly killed me.
“What did you say?”
“Nothig Daddy, absolutely nothing!”
Then he beat me at skee-ball.
Not barely.
Humiliatingly.
“That machine is rigged,” I said as his ball rolled into the highest ring again.
“It’s a machine from 1989.”
“Exactly. You bribed it decades ago.”
“I was eleven.”
“You were already corrupt.”
He looked at me with perfect solemnity. “Hmmm. That is true.”
I cheated on the next round.
Not elegantly. I waited until he looked away, then dropped three balls into the top ring from directly above it.
Sal watched the score change.
“Yelena.”
“What?”
“You dropped those.”
“Prove it.”
“There is a camera.”
I looked up at the security camera.
Then back at him.
“It is actually considered rude to review date footage.”
His laugh came low and warm. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m winning.”
“You are cheating.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
At pinball, Sal beat me again. His hands worked the controls with maddening calm. The silver ball flew through ramps and flashing targets while I watched his score climb.
“Mafia corruption,” I accused.
“You think I have influence over a pinball machine?”
“You have influence over everything.”
His gaze shifted to me.
Not playful now. Something more careful.
“Not you,” he said.
The answer caught beneath my ribs.
Before I could recover, he went to the claw machine.
The prizes inside were terrible. Neon bears. Deflated cartoon rabbits. A stuffed grey wolf with lopsided ears and a suspiciously vacant expression.
“I want that one,” I said.
“The wolf?”
I nodded.
Sal fed tokens into the machine.
His first attempt failed. The claw caught the wolf by one ear, lifted it two inches, then dropped it.
I covered my mouth.
Sal looked at the machine.
The machine hummed innocently.
His second attempt failed too.
“Should I call Pietro?” I asked. “He has a quieter way of threatening objects.”
“Be quiet.”
The third try caught the wolf around its fat middle. The claw rose. The wolf swung over the chute.
Then dropped.
Into the prize slot.
I clapped both hands together.
Sal bent and retrieved it. The thing was soft, grey, and profoundly ugly. One eye sat higher than the other.
He handed it to me.
“For you.”
“He’s actually very ugly!”
We laughed together. “Yep. It’s decided. He’s ugly and cheap. I’m naming him Gianni.”
Sal’s brows rose.
“His head appears to contain nothing but synthetic filling.”
This time Sal laughed without holding anything back.
The sound made the arcade feel warmer.
I tucked Gianni-the-wolf beneath my arm and reached for another token.
“Again,” I said.
Sal looked at the air hockey table.
“Are you challenging me?”
“I’m destroying you.”
“Careful, bella.”
I smiled at him.
“Or what?”
The diner booth was cracked red vinyl, and it felt more dangerous than a negotiation table.
At a negotiation table, I knew the rules. Nobody asked questions unless they wanted leverage. Nobody offered food without counting what it cost.
Sal sat opposite me with his jacket folded beside him and his sleeves rolled up. Gianni-the-wolf occupied the space between us.
A server brought grilled cheese, fries, and a chocolate milkshake with two straws.
“I didn’t order that,” I said.
Sal looked at the milkshake. “I did.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Fine.”
He took one fry.
I watched him.
Then I took the other straw and drank.
It was cold and sweet and thick enough to be embarrassing.
Sal said nothing.
“That is not a victory,” I told him.
“No. That’s what happened back at the arcade.”
“Yeah, for me! I thrashed your ass!
We laughed again, and started to eat. The quiet was not sharp. It did not demand filling.
I dipped a fry into ketchup.
“What did you do before you were terrifying?” I asked.
Sal considered that.
“I’ve always been fairly terrifying.”
“At twelve?”
“At twelve, I was skinny. This made people careless.”
“Ah. A tactical childhood.”
“I lived near the water. My father ran ships. I thought that was the most important thing in the world.”
“You liked shipping?”
“I loved it.” His expression changed when he spoke of it. Not softer exactly. More open. “Ports. Maps. The fact that you could put something on a ship in Sicily and know where it would be three weeks later if everyone did their work correctly.”
“That sounds like a very Salvatore thing to love.”
“I was boring even then.”
“No. You were a boy who liked knowing how things connected.”
His eyes held mine.
“My father used to take me to the docks,” he said. “He showed me manifests. Taught me that the smallest error could lose a cargo or a man. He said responsibility was not glamorous. It was simply noticing what other people failed to notice.”
“That also sounds like a very Salvatore thing to love.”
He smiled faintly.
“My mother says I was less severe then.”
“She calls you Tore.”
“She is allowed.”
“Does anyone else call you that?”
“No.”
I wanted to ask whether I could.
The question sat on my tongue. I left it there.
Sal took a sip of milkshake. “What did your mother teach you?”
The answer came before I could arm it.
“The fleet.”