Yes. That was the way.
But when I opened the door, I knew I had to rethink my strategy. Beautiful and strong. The weight of life on her. Every muscle meant for survival. An instrument of death and life. She was a bird who’d molted into a deadly carrion, sleek and lethal. How then? Had it happened when she chose to shoot a kitchen apart rather than be left behind? Was it her commitment to me even though she thought I was unavailable? Was that it? What had changed except for the way she fit into the world?
The puzzle of the air and space around her had always clicked to meet the way she walked and spoke. But when she got out of that car, the world changed to meet her on her terms.
I got in front of her, stopping her. She would be impossible to control. She scared the hell out of me. Since the day I met her, she had been frightening, and it had only gotten worse. My life was spinning out of control, and it was her, all her.
She stood on the curb, chin up, with a face that asked what could possibly be the problem? What on earth was unusual about her demanding a part in a negotiation with a Sicilian family to get the quarter million death-price off her head?
“What’s here?” she asked. “This isn’t some mob boss’s compound.”
“It’s a restaurant. I’m meeting with my crew.”
“And then?”
“I’m handcuffing you to something you can’t shoot, and I’m taking care of business.”
“Handcuff me to you.”
“I don’t know what to do with you,” I said.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
I felt the shake of rage. I had to hold it back. What did I want to say? I wanted to explain the rules and expectations, because if she was going to be by my side, we had to be of one mind. Yet that was crazy. It wasn’t allowed, and it could get her hurt.
“You insist on this course. Repeatedly,” I said. “We should be in bed right now. My only problem should be how many times I can get my dick in you in a day.”
“Grieve for that dream,” she said. “Because it died.”
twenty-three.
theresa
nce I said the words, the juices started twirling in my own heart. Our dream of a quiet little life was dead. Deal with it.
Behind me, Zo took off to get the crew, and it was just Antonio and me on the sidewalk.
The little chained sign in the glass door of Zia’s was flipped to the CLOSED side even though, behind the print curtains, the lights were on. I tried to walk toward it, but Antonio blocked the way.
“Listen. They won’t want to accept you. Do I need to tell you the reasons?” he asked.
“I’m a woman, and I’m from the right side of the tracks. That cover it?”
“Yes. But I ask only that you hide what you’re made of for now. Until you need to show it.”
“What am I made of?” I asked.
Antonio put his thumb and forefinger on either side of my chin. It would be hard to remember he was married. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Bene,” I said.
Antonio backed up and let me in, then followed. The door slapped closed behind us.
The restaurant smelled of bleach and tomato sauce, and it sounded like the buzz of fluorescent lights and tension. The lunch crowd hadn’t shown up yet; neither had the waitstaff. Only the smell of food drifting from the kitchen gave any indication that the captain was at the helm.
Antonio reached back and drew the bolt on the door. As if summoned by the clack, Zia came to the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands with a white towel. The space between her and Antonio was tight with strain.
“Tonio,” she said.
“Aunt.”
Zia’s chin wrinkled then straightened. “Mea culpa. Per Tina. Per Antonin.” Her voice cracked, and fat tears dropped down her cheek. “Per tutti.”
Antonio didn’t move. No one moved. Forgiveness hung in the air, refusing to touch down. People couldn’t die from tension in a room, but if they could, we would have at least passed out from the toxins.