“DiMarco, the barber, is a reliable watcher. Check him.”
Petro nods, grabs the box, and disappears into the alley. My fingers stay on the label, but I’ve stopped seeing the words.
The morning keeps coming. Paper bags, tape, ribbon. Kids press noses to the case and leave foggy ovals. I keep moving. Sugar stays sugar, even on a day like this. The bell rings, and the room folds in on itself for me. It’s Nico.
My chest tightens for a second for a reason I couldn’t explain to anyone who doesn’t live inside it. He’s pale, prowling, and limping, but breathing. A band of raw skin circles one wrist, the kind zip ties leave after time. In the other hand, he carries a knit cap, something fished from The Lantern’s lost-and-found. He gives a small chin lift, his version of hello, and takes the stool by the pantry door as if it already belongs to him.
Matteo follows, coat zipped, face calm, a block of ice with a burn underneath. My mother slides tea and a plate of cookies towardNico—pfeffernüsse dusted in sugar and two almond biscotti. He eats fast, warily, as though the food might disappear if he waits.
I find Matteo by the dish sink, water running, our voices buried under clatter.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“Empty room above The Lantern,” he says, straight and spare. “Rented last night under ‘Daniel Kiefer’. Cash. No luggage.” His mouth tightens. “Tape and silence. A closet with a cheap panel for a back. He was alone.” A beat. “DiMarco saw it—three men pushing Nico into the SUV. He’s sharp, that one. Notices everything in his mirror while he moves his scissors.” He tips his chin toward Nico. “We hit the lock. Nico swung on sound. He did not break.”
“Do they come early now that he’s out?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “They wrote Christmas Eve, and they will keep to it. They will change how they set up, not when they strike. We will feel it.”
I press a cold cloth into Nico’s hand. “Honey or sugar?”
“Honey,” he says, like the word is armor. I pour without asking again.
The day builds. Marco announces five-thirty is our departure time because “shepherds walk slow.” He tapes two more snowflakes to the counter. I catch Hal hauling a small stack of cones from his hardware store across the street.
Mrs. Brewster sticks her head in the door, planner clutched to her chest. “How many urns should I set at the hall?”
“Two,” I tell her. “Three if the choir shows early.”
She salutes with a coffee stirrer and bolts back into the cold.
I catch Matteo near the back, close enough that I can speak into the space between us and not be overheard. “Find me later,” I tell him. “We need to talk about where I am during the show.”
“I already decided.”
“Try again.”
He takes that half beat he always takes when he wants to react and chooses not to. “You will be in the center aisle with your mother. Marco will be between you. I will be at stage right. Petro will be at the kitchen door. Nico will stand in the lobby with the programs. Your son stays in my sight.”
“Say it again.”
“He won’t leave my sight.”
Something unclenches inside me and then clamps again because now it’s a promise. “Good. I’m not sending him backstage for the first number. He comes up with the kids when it’s his turn, not a minute before.”
“Then that is how we will do it.”
We move like that for another hour. Boxes, notes, names. My mother shoves a sandwich into my hands. I eat half and hand the other half to Matteo. He tears it once, drops his eyes in thanks, and eats standing up.
He checks his phone, then the street. “I have one more walk to make,” he tells me. “Fifteen minutes. Then I am done moving in circles.”
“You’ll call when it’s clear,” I shoot back, trying for light, and let my mouth curve into a smile.
“I’ll call.” He touches my elbow, then leaves with the canvas bag and the rest of what he’ll need.
Nico stays on the stool near the pantry. Stillness that reads as rest. When he looks my way, I give a small nod. We understand more than we should. The bakery settles into a quieter rhythm for a bit. Pickups, last boxes, a kid we’ve known since she was five showing us her angel halo like it’s a crown from a king. I make a list because that’s what works for me. I tell myself everything will be fine and work the stiffness out of my neck, as if I could knead the worry out with it.
The phone buzzes with a call that lasts three words. “Clear for now,” Matteo says. That’s all I get.
