“You always did your work without being told twice,” he says at last, age showing through the polish. “I never cared for surprises. This one I accept because you earned the right to choose badly.” A pause, the faintest curl of humor that never quite becomes a smile. “And because you chose in the open.”
“I did.”
“You are out from the moment this call ends.” His voice turns slow and measured, a warning passed down through years. “If you come back, you come back as a stranger, and you come back with debt.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing,” Vincent says, quieter now, almost like a parting benediction between predators who have learned to respect one another. “The Benedettis will keep a string on that woman who watches your windows. Cut it. Make it plain. They respect what they can count. Show them numbers they do not like.”
“The town stands with me when it needs to,” I say simply.
“Small towns love their myths,” he replies, the words roughened by time. “Feed them one that keeps you alive.” His breath catches faintly before the distance takes it. “Auguri, ragazzo. You were a good right hand.”
The line dies.
I do not move for a count of ten. Cold works into my hands until I can no longer feel the fingers that are still mine. I look up at the snow that keeps choosing the ground, arranging itself like leaves, buds, and flowers along the bushes, blooming white on the bare branches. Each flake takes the shape of where it falls. This is homecoming.
The alley lies quiet. The street shows tire marks that lead nowhere important. The door behind me opens an inch, a slip of warmth breathing into the afternoon.
Lila stands there, one hand on the jamb, eyes steady. She must have heard the last part. She does not ask what it costs. I step inside and close the door so the snow stays where it belongs.
The bakery smells of bread and citrus. Marco looks up from the small city he has built out of cookie tins and paper crowns. He studies my face for a moment, seems to understand, and returns to his work. There is no stance left in me, no code on display—only the truth of what I just did, sitting hard in my chest.
“I told him I’m finished,” I say at last. “We’re on our own.”
She measures me with her eyes, quiet as a seamstress. “What does that mean for you?”
“It means the name that used to open doors won’t open them anymore. It means the men who don’t like me may say so out loud. It means the Benedettis will test every fence I build. It also means I answer to no one who tells me to move you again.”
Her jaw works. She nods, small and careful, not looking directly at me. My coat drips a wet line on the mat, and the sound folds into the rhythm of the room. Maria takes a loaf from the heat and sets it on the rack with a judge’s certainty. Life insists on its next step.
I rub my knuckles, the cut under the napkin itching as it heals. Lila steps closer until the counter no longer divides us.
“I didn’t ask you to do this,” she says, her eyes darker now. There is no accusation in it, only reckoning.
“You didn’t. I did it because I wanted to be a man who stays.”
Her mouth softens into something like relief. The boy runs past us with his paper crown held high like a trophy, shouting that Nonna says the bread needs butter. The moment absorbs him and lets him go.
I lower my voice. “I can’t promise quiet,” I tell her. “But I can promise that anyone who touches you or the boy won’t leave this town standing.”
“I know,” she says, almost a whisper.
Snow knocks softly against the window. I wait for her to speak again or to walk away and let the truth settle. She does neither. She stays, eyes steady on mine, and when she finally speaks, she says, “If you stay, you stay for all of us. Not just for the fight.”
29
LILA
Hal props the bakery door open with his boot and nods at Matteo as if they’ve been trading favors for twenty years. Two days after Christmas, the town speaks Matteo’s name like a man who always belonged here.
“Good line on those cones,” he tells him, no smile, all approval. “Clean thinking.”
Mrs. Brewster finds him by the coffee urn, cup half full, her planner tucked under one arm like a weapon. “Mr. Russo,” she begins in the tone that means he’s a volunteer. “We were just saying we need another fundraiser after New Year’s—something cheerful—music, baked goods, the usual chaos. You’ve got a gift for order, and people listen to you. You’ll help me pull it together, won’t you?” Matteo nods once, the kind that buys time. “Send me the list,” he says.
Dot Kline leans across the counter to me and whispers, “If he ever needs a warm coat, you send him my way.” Then, louder, to Matteo, “You do good work, Son.”
Even Mr. Farrell, who has never praised anything in print or person, folds his newspaper in half and lifts his chin. “You kept heads,” he mutters. “That matters.”
