“Who?”
I nod to the door opening. The tall woman in the black dress walking out. “Her.”
“The granddaughter, I think. The chef one in Italy.”
Before either of us can say more, an answer comes from my right from the produce guy who’s been delivering here since before I could get into a bar.
“That’s Sabina’s Bianca,” he says. “Francesca’s girl. Flew in from Florence or somewhere fancy. Chef.” Pride colors his voice.
Bianca. The name fits the lines of her face, even when it’s marred with a frown and grief. She’s got her head tilted close to her mother’s and is talking. For a heartbeat, Francesca forgets to worry about us being here, and the grief in her mouth softens into something like relief.
Roberto nudges me. “Stop scowling like a gargoyle. You look like you’re casing the place.”
“I am always casing the place.” I don’t look away from Bianca. “It’s survived this long without us. It’ll survive another hour.”
He follows my look, grins. “She’s pretty.”
“She’s young.”
“So were you once.”
“Briefly,” I say, and he laughs quietly.
Francesca turns and finds me still there. Panic rockets through her so hard I can feel it across the room. Her hand comes up like she might ward me off with a spoon. She doesn’t come over. She just looks at me like I’m a match near a gas line and shakes her head once. Not here. Not this.
I give her the smallest nod. I’m not here for that. Not today.
We make the rounds. Roberto tells the story of Sabina smacking his wrist with a wooden spoon when he stole a meatball. “I still have the scar,” he says, and shows them nothing, and they howl like they can see it.
I shake hands, I say the right words, I let people say something back. I keep my eyes off Bianca and fail.
She moves through the room, and the crowd parts like they know better than to interrupt the person who’s making sure the food keeps coming.
I catch a glimpse of Francesca frowning in our direction. It’s long past five minutes, and she’s starting to panic.
I could push. I could say Sabina would’ve wanted—what? Me to eat? Nonsense. Sabina wanted rent paid, and sauce right, and people fed. She wanted peace, which was why she kept us at a careful distance, and we kept our distance as well.
“Roberto,” I say. “Let’s go.”
With reluctance, he agrees.
We head for the door. On the way out, I look back at the kitchen again, wanting one more glimpse. But the door doesn’t open, and she’s on the other side.
Outside, the air smells like rain that will come whenever it pleases. Roberto shoves his hands in his pockets and whistles nothing. “So,” he says. “We showed up, we were polite, we didn’t start any wars.”
I look back at the fogged windows, at the glow. At the black ribbon tilting under tape. “Send flowers to the house,” I say. “Not here.”
“From us?”
“From no one.”
He nods. “And the envelope?”
“No envelope,” I say. “She’ll know who it’s from and pretend she doesn’t.”
Roberto grins. “Vatican levels of denial.”
“It’s a gesture, Roberto,” I say. “Not a threat.”
