Chapter 1 #3
Serafina flicked open the gallery and began scrolling.
I watched the flicker of her face as she worked: concentration, a slight flare of nostril at something that didn’t fit, then the tilt of her mouth as she hit on a connection I hadn’t seen.
She was good at this, and her father in Sicily finally understood it.
“I know that face,” she said, not to me. “He was at the fundraiser in Palermo last year. With Valenti’s consigliere.”
“Means Gianni’s not just running. He’s meeting,” Marco said.
“Or being met,” Serafina corrected, and took a fast sip from her glass. She turned her attention on me. “What else?”
I gave them the highlights. Russo’s car, the way he checked for tails but never saw me, the hand-off in the diner and the timing of the meeting.
I described the envelope, the way the man never ordered food, only watched the street.
I handed over the notes I’d taken on my phone—just names and times, the kind of stuff you could burn with a magnet swipe if needed.
Marco listened with his body: arms folded, knee bouncing under the table, the tip of his tongue running the inside of his lip when I said anything that mattered. He waited until I was done, then glanced at Serafina. “You think it’s money? Or something heavier?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at me and asked, “What’s your read?”
That was the thing about Serafina. She never asked unless she wanted the truth.
“Russo’s scared. But he’s not just scared for himself. He’s trying to keep his wife and kid out of it.” I hesitated, unsure if this part was my place. “He checks the phone, then throws it in a sewer grate every time. Always a new burner. Means he expects to be traced.”
Marco gave a low whistle. “Paranoia, or justified?”
“Both,” I said. “He knows the Valentis. He knows what happens to accountants who fuck up.”
Serafina considered that, then pushed the glass toward me, full. “Drink it,” she said, and her voice left no space for argument.
I drank. It burned clean, so strong I coughed. She smiled, a quick, bright flash, then fixed Marco with a look. “We tell Dante?”
Don Caruso. The eldest of the brothers—a formidable man.
“Mmhmm,” Marco said. “We’ll see what he says.”
Serafina nodded, then wrote something in a notebook, tearing the page out and folding it into her pocket. “Good work, cugino,” she said. “We’ll let you know when it’s time.”
There was a beat, then Marco broke the mood with a forced grin. “Stay for dinner,” he said. “Serafina’s been eating like a dockworker. You could use a few pounds too. Then after, you hit the club. No doubt your brothers will be here.”
She rolled her eyes. “You see him lately, Marco? He’s muscle and scars. Leave him alone.”
Marco ignored her, poured another round, and looked at me with a softer edge. “Seriously, stay. I have a girl coming who’s perfect for you. Smart, pretty, Sicilian but not the kind who’ll talk your ear off.”
I shook my head. “No girls. Not tonight.”
He raised a brow. “Not ever?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to have that conversation, not even with them.
It wasn’t just about women, or trust, or the idea of letting someone close enough to fuck up my sleep for another decade.
It was about the nightmare. The one that always ended the same way: hands blood-slick, the warehouse stink, the feeling of a life ending under your grip.
Serafina must have seen something in my face, because she reached over and squeezed my wrist, hard and certain, the way she did when we were kids and I’d split my knuckles on the schoolyard. “Don’t listen to him,” she said. “The only thing you need tonight is to sit and breathe.”
I tried to make a joke, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just nodded, and Marco—bless him—let the subject drop.
We moved to the window, overlooking the main room.
The staff were rolling out the velvet ropes, the bartender lining up the house bottles in perfect symmetry.
There was a pulse in the floor, the anticipation of a night not yet begun.
I could see two of the regulars already circling, both in dresses they couldn’t have afforded without their last boyfriends.
The sight of them used to make me hungry, but now it just made me tired.
“I ever tell you about my place? The vineyard?”
“No,” I said.
“When things get too much—if they get too much—you ask me about it. Ok?”
“Sure,” I said.
We stood in silence for a while, watching the club fill up with strangers.
In an hour, Tonio would show up, crash the bar, and drag at least two women home before dawn.
Sal would arrive last, as always, and pretend he hated every minute of it.
Maybe, if we were lucky, we’d get one good hour of laughter before the world came crashing in again.
Marco put his arm around my shoulder. It was heavy and warm, and for a second I didn’t flinch.
“Take a break,” he said. “Just for tonight. Let the girls dance. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”
I nodded, not really agreeing but not fighting him either. The glass in my hand was empty, and I let him refill it.
Serafina moved closer to the window, hands clasped over the curve of her belly.
She watched the crowd, scanning for danger and opportunity the way she always had.
In that moment she looked more like the old man than she ever had before—same set to the mouth, same refusal to let life be anything but a battle.
She caught me looking, and for a second, her smile was real.
The three of us stood there, side by side, and watched as the lights dimmed and the club came to life. Maybe, somehow, I could find a way to enjoy myself tonight.