She watches me crack eggs into a bowl. "This is surreal."
"What is?"
"You. Making breakfast. Talking about my nutrition. Like you have any right to control what I eat."
"I have every right." I heat olive oil in the pan and add the pancetta. The smell fills the kitchen. "Sit. Watch."
"I don't?—"
"Sit."
She sits.
I cook in silence for a while. I let her stew. I let her think. When I finally speak, I don't look at her. "Tell me about Mrs. Kowalski."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know you. The real you, not just the version I've been watching from a distance." I stir the eggs. "Months of surveillance tells me what you do. Not who you are."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, maybe because she needs the illusion of normalcy, maybe because she's tired of fighting, she starts talking. About the hospital, about her patients, about the old woman on the fourth floor who reminds her of her grandmother.
I listen. I file every detail away. I'm building the profile, learning the weak points, finding the levers.
We eat at the island. The food is good. She doesn't want to admit it, but I can see it in her face.
I pour her more coffee. We talk. Or rather, I ask questions and she answers because silence is worse.
It's not normal.
It's never going to be normal.
But it's a start.
I lead her to the library when we're done. The shelves are floor-to-ceiling, filled with everything from first editions to dog-eared paperbacks. She runs her fingers along the spines.
"You read."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. I just..." She's holding a volume of poetry. Neruda. "I didn't think mob enforcers were big on literature."
"Most aren't." I take the book from her and flip to a marked page. "My mother was a teacher before she married my father.She made sure I could read more than just gambling ledgers and police reports. She wanted me to be more than what I became."
"What else don't I know about you?"
"Ask."
"What's your favorite book?"
"The Count of Monte Cristo." I put the Neruda back on the shelf. "Revenge, justice, patience. Man spends years planning his revenge. Becoming someone new. Taking everything from the people who took everything from him."
She's quiet. Processing the implicit threat.
Good.
"Favorite music?"
"Opera. Puccini, mostly. Some Verdi." I pull out my phone and connect it to the sound system. A moment later, "Nessun Dorma" fills the penthouse. "You know this one?"
