“You don’t have to stay inside the fence,” I say, referencing the fact that our men broke the tracking on Luca’s monitor months ago, that we could make it say whatever we wanted it to say.
“I know, but for Elena’s sake,” he says, then sighs. “The things we do for love.”
I suppose that’s what he gets for falling in love with a federal prosecutor. Well, former prosecutor, anyway. They don’t take too kindly to prosecutors having babies with mafia dons.
“Just use the fence,” I say. “People underestimate a man who can’t move. Makes them talk more.”
“Been doing that,” he says. “Sometimes I like it too much. A different kind of challenge.”
I drink the last of the espresso. Bitter, clean.
The baby stirs. He puts a hand on her back, and she goes still. His jaw softens.
“Remember when you brought Lucia to the doctor for the two-month shots and you almost threw up?” I say.
“I did throw up,” he says, deadpan. “In the parking lot behind a dumpster. Carlotta laughed until she cried. Then she cried for real.”
“You tried to fight the nurse,” I say.
“She was five feet tall and had a needle the size of a harpoon,” he says. “I was protecting my kid.”
“You were twenty and stupid,” I say.
He smiles without looking at me. “Still am, some days.”
We don’t have to say the other part. Lucia’s name hangs in the air, easier now that it’s been said out loud between us. He skims a look at me. I give him one back.
“You remember her like this?” I ask because the sight of him with a newborn is a time machine.
He doesn’t answer for a beat. He looks past me, into some room none of us live in anymore. “Every detail,” he says at last. “She was light. Didn’t feel real at first. Then you hold her for five minutes and you’re ruined. She liked the morning light by the back door. Carlotta used to take pictures that we never printed because we kept saying we’d do it later. I don’t know where that roll went.”
His voice goes soft and wistful.
“She’s coming,” he says. “Lucia.”
“When?”
“Elena’s working on next week. Lucia picks the day. We keep it simple. Dinner here. Not a circus.”
“Good,” I say. “Small.”
“As small as we can manage,” he says. “Me, Elena. You. Roberto and Antonio. The kids. Nick. Lucia’s girls.” He pats Alessandra on the back and begins rocking her. “Introduce them properly. No audience. No extras. No one trying to make it a show.”
“Understood.”
“Elena says Lucia talks more with her. Easier that way. No history to trip on.”
“Elena’s good at this,” I say. “The first steps.”
He nods. “The meet we had last month. It wasn’t enough. I didn’t even see— They didn’t bring their daughters. I hope that she will this time.”
He blows out a breath, and I see what he doesn’t show. How much the meet with Lucia meant to him, however brief and formal it was. How much it’ll mean to him to see his granddaughters for the first time.
It reminds me of the last time I saw Lucia. At a courthouse smelling like sweat and old carpet. Reporters camped outside like seagulls, waiting for scraps. Inside, the air tight and suffocating. I don’t know how Roberto does it day after day.
Luca’s in a suit but cuffed. I stand two rows back, hands in pockets so I don’t break the wood in front of me.
Lucia walks in with a public defender and a spine made of wire. No makeup. Hair pulled back like she’s going to take a test. She doesn’t look for us. She looks at the judge, then the microphone. When she raises her right hand, everything feels unreal. Her voice is steady. Not loud. Not small. She says what she saw. What she knew. She doesn’t add extra. She didn’t need to. It was enough to seal his fate.
