How did he know?
"Tell me about yourself," he says, and it's not quite a request.
"That's a broad question."
"Start anywhere." He leans forward, elbows on the table, and the space between us shrinks. "I want to know everything."
The way he says everything makes my mouth go dry.
"I'm a nurse. ER. You know that already."
"I do. But I don't know why."
"Why what?"
"Why you became a nurse." He's so still when he watches me, like a predator that's learned patience. "It's not an easy job. Long hours, shit pay, people at their worst. Most people couldn't handle it. But you do. So why?"
Because my brother died and I couldn't save him. Because I spent years trying to make up for it, trying to save everyone else so maybe it would balance out. Because my brother died alone with no one there to hold his hand. But I don't say any of that.
"I like helping people," I say instead, which is true but incomplete.
He nods slowly, like he knows I'm lying by omission but he'll allow it. For now.
"Family?"
"Parents in Bensonhurst. You?"
"Dead."
The word lands heavy between us. I wait, but he doesn't elaborate. He keeps looking at me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else do you say?
"Don't be. It was a long time ago." He takes a sip of his coffee, and I notice his hands—scarred knuckles, a thin white line across his right palm that looks like it came from a knife. "You close with them? Your parents?"
"Close enough. Sunday dinners, holidays. My mom still tries to set me up with every Italian boy in Brooklyn."
"But you left." Not a question. "Moved to Hell's Kitchen."
"Yeah. I needed my own space." I take a sip of coffee. "What about you?" I ask, trying to regain some footing. "What do you do? For work, I mean."
"I solve problems for people."
I wait for him to expand on that, but he doesn't. He looks at me, patient and still.
"That's vague."
"It's accurate."
"What kind of problems?"
"The kind people can't solve themselves." He takes a sip of his coffee, his throat working when he swallows. "The kind that require... particular skill sets."
A vague job description, no details, the kind of answer that sounds reasonable but means absolutely nothing. The kind of answer men give when they don't want you to know what they really do.
I notice the watch on his wrist too—expensive, not flashy but quality, the kind that costs more than I make in a month. When the waitress came over, she didn't quite meet his eyes. When a guy at the bar glanced our way earlier, he looked away fast when he saw Luca.
People are afraid of him.
