I see the dead space between the tree and the gazebo, the gap in the hedge where someone cut through last year, and no one fixed it because there were no more stakes. I see the tire line that turned wide this afternoon and came back again an hour later, same tread, same careful route. I crouch and check the impression. All-season pattern. Mid-size. No chains. I measure the spread with my hand. Same as the sedan outside the Lantern.
Petro checks in on time. “Sightlines locked. The stage right wing by the kitchen is secured. Task lamps full. Post watching the service entrance.”
“Good,” I mutter. “And the left?”
“Left wing toward the alley secured. Ceiling lamps full. Upstage wings are covered. Lamps on low to remove shadows but avoid backlighting posts.”
“Good,” I reply. “Hold the north corner and keep your face in the glass like you are reading the community board. If anyone takes your picture, let them.”
He clicks once to acknowledge.
I complete the loop and return along Main. A couple comes out of the diner laughing into their scarves. A kid drags a sled over bare concrete, determined to make winter happen whether it cooperates or not. The bell on the bodega door chimes twice, and someone curses about milk. It looks like a town that believes nothing wrong will happen again because the calendar is right.
The note tied to the rock from this morning sits in my pocket, folded and hard.One more night. A dare written without style and left with a stone. I have received this kind of letter before. It always says the same thing.We are near. Do you blink?
I do not blink.
At the bakery, the front lights are low. The plywood over the window turns the room into a cave with edges. I open the back door and step inside, closing it quietly. Noise costs too much. The kitchen is warm and smells like cinnamon and butter and the thing I did not allow myself to name until I had my hands on it again. Home. I stand with that thought and let it burn a little. Anger is easier to carry than want.
Lila sits at the counter with a needle poised over a scrap of gold fabric, the start of another star for Marco’s robe. Her hair is tied back, a few strands loose, her cheekbones caught in the light from the cabinet lamp. She pauses to tuck one behind her ear—a small habit that surfaces when she is thinking through noise. Her gaze lifts from the stitches, steady and composed, watching me cross the room the way a person watches weather change. I give her what she has been waiting for.
“Perimeter is set,” I report. “Work lights are up in the hall. The boiler corridor is funneled. Petro has the north corner. Thesquare holds.” My voice sounds like a man reading numbers. It has to.
She takes a sip from a mug resting near her elbow. “You always do this,” she says, not unkindly. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s a list,” I say. It is true.
She studies me. “And everyone on your list,” she says quietly, “is there because you pay them to stand when you call.”
“Everyone’s paid somehow,” I say. “Some take money. Some take silence.”
Her tone is even. “That’s the thing about your kind of order, Matteo. It holds only until someone’s price changes.”
The words hit where they should. I rest my palms on the steel and let the sting sit. I do not argue that loyalty can be bought if you add fear and debt to the bag. I have lived the truth.
“I know,” I say. “It is why I do not sleep.”
“Does that make you safer?” she asks.
“No,” I murmur. “It only teaches you where the edge is.”
She holds my eyes. For a long beat she only breathes, the mug warm between her hands. Then, “I just hate that this is what it takes.”
I step closer, close enough that my shadow falls across her hands, not close enough to touch. The words come slower now, the edges measured.
“I will not let anyone take you or the boy,” I say. “That is not bravado. That is work. I will move people and money and favors until the danger does not find purchase.”
She studies me. “That is a lot of moving,” she says. “How long can you keep that up?”
“Long enough,” I answer. “Long enough to make a life worth keeping.” I do not pretend it will cost nothing. I do not pretend it will not change me.
She absorbs it. She believes me. I can see it in the way her shoulders ease by one notch and the way her mouth stops pressing itself thin. That belief is a responsibility I cannot fail.
Maria stands in the arch with a dish towel in her hands. She reads the room with a glance. “You two can be tragic later,” she declares. “I need hands with trays.” She sets down a stack of cooling racks as if she is breaking a spell on purpose. It works. I help line up gingerbread and box them in dozens with red twine. Lila writes names on white stickers in a hand that would have made a designer jealous. Small work slows the mind. I let it.
Marco snores from upstairs and turns over. A truck falls from a sleeping hand and makes a single sharp sound on wood. I look up without meaning to. Lila notices and bites down on a smile. I pretend not to see it and fail.
When the last box is tied, I make another round of calls. Petro reports every minute like I told him to. The sheriff does his slow drive past the diner and the guide kiosk and then returns to sit near the square. He is not my man, but he is not their man either.
