“I’ll manage.”
“You will. From the passenger seat.”
I roll my eyes but find myself following him all the same. We find a block where cars line the curb like possibilities. He chooses a dusty sedan with a church bulletin on the dash and kneels by the steering column with a focus that would be noble in another life.
“You need help, Rossi?” I crouch down beside him.
“Nah, I got this.”
A second later, wires hiss and spark, then the engine coughs and finally catches.
“Charming,” I mutter. “Does our getaway vehicle come with a rosary and a built-in confession too?”
He gestures to the passenger door, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Get in.”
We stare each other down, just standing there, until the quiet starts to itch. I give up first because time is our enemy, and Jersey isn’t getting any closer. I slide in, duffel at my feet, and tug the hood lower. Matteo pulls into traffic like he owns it.
The drive across the bridge is merciless, yanking at every last thread of my patience. Manhattan finally appears behind us, a steel skyline jutting up against the cloudy gray. I touch the edge of the blossom under my jacket and press until the ache steadies my hands. Then I angle the vent away; the lukewarm air smells like old water. My throat stings where the blade hit and barely missed.
We ride in a silence that feels heavier than any argument. He checks the mirror like it’s a habit he learned in the cradle, and I count the cars behind us.
Halfway over the river I can’t stand the quiet any longer. “Why are you helping me?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You know why.”
That lands like a live wire. I keep my gaze on the water, black and tumultuous, much like my current mood. “Say it.”
He exhales. “Not here.”
“Convenient.”
“Necessary.”
I roll the words around in my mind. Another mile. The skyline thins and flattens. New Jersey rises across the dash, and I exhale a sigh of relief. The radio is off. The only sound is the engine and all the things we’re not saying.
He tries again first. “Do you still hate olives?”
I blink. “That’s your follow-up?”
“Trying to lighten the mood.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Yes or no.”
“Yes.” I pause. “Green ones are a crime against nature.”
He nods solemnly. “Finally, common ground.”
“And you still drown your pasta in red pepper flakes like you’re trying to cauterize your taste buds?”
“It’s therapeutic.” He glances over. “Still sneaking extra sugar into espresso when no one’s looking?”
“It’s called making it drinkable.”
“Savage.” A beat. The corner of his mouth lifts, then drops like he isn’t allowed to keep the expression. “Favorite breakfast?”
“Depends. If I’m running for my life, anything I can eat with one hand. If I’m not—” I stop. The wordnotfeels hypothetical. “Soda bread. Warm with real butter.”
“Of course the Irish lass says bread.” He taps the wheel. “I make eggs better than any man in this country.”
I snort before I can stop it. “Eggs, huh? As I recall, you burn toast.”
