“Doesn’t matter. You run, you eat.”
I looked at Olimpo, who wagged his tail in solidarity.
“You’re never on my side, hey Olimpo?”
Sal gave his dog a loving pat. “Unlike you, he’s smart.”
Tonio made his entrance at a quarter past seven, heavy on the stairs and heavier on the decibel count. He wore nothing but black boxers and a gold chain thick enough to tow a boat. His hair was smashed flat on one side from sleep, his eyes red but bright. He came into the kitchen like a shot, yawned so wide I thought his jaw might pop, and dropped to one knee to maul Olimpo’s ears until the dog sagged against the floor in pure, obscene bliss.
“God, I needed that,” Tonio said, voice already too loud for the hour. “Did I tell you about my dream? There was a woman from Naples, blonde, huge—” he held out his hands in a way that suggested she’d have toppled over in a stiff wind— “but I can’t remember her name. Something with an L?”
Sal did not look up from his manifest. “Put on your fucking pants, Tonio,” he said, flat as concrete.
Tonio grinned. “You see this? Policing me before I even have coffee. It’s just my body, Sal, and I’m sorry if peak physical perfection disturbs you.” He raided the fridge, took out eggs, and spun a carton of them from one hand to the other with the grace of someone who’d been breaking things since childhood.
I couldn’t help it—I snorted into my coffee, a half-laugh I tried to choke down. Tonio caught it and crowed, pointing at me like he’d won a bet.
“He laughs! Sal, he laughs. Write it down, today Pietro laughs.”
“He’s delirious from lack of REM,” Sal said, not bothering to look up. “Ignore him.”
Tonio set to work at the stove, singing tunelessly under his breath. He cracked three eggs one-handed, thumbed out a bit of shell, and threw the fragments into the sink without looking. He moved like someone who’d spent their whole life in other people’s kitchens and never once been asked to clean up. The air filled with the smell of hot butter and onion. Probably Sal’s leftovers, which Tonio had stolen. He always did.
I poured another coffee and watched the backs of my brothers. For a minute, I could imagine a universe where we were just like this. No ghosts. No obligations. Just three guys sharing a kitchen, arguing over breakfast and whose turn it was to walk the dog.
Olimpo, sensing food, stretched under the table and groaned up at Tonio, who grinned and flicked him a piece of something. The dog caught it on his tongue and drooled it back onto Sal’s slipper.
“Disgusting,” Sal said, finally looking up to give Tonio a glare. “I’d focus on that cooking brother. God forbid you get hit with food poisoning.”
Tonio cackled. “Eggs have to be soft, Sal. What’s the point if you overcook them? That’s the problem with this country, you know. They don’t respect the ingredient. Everything here is rubber.”
Sal massaged the bridge of his nose. “The problem with this country,” he repeated. “That’s your angle now?”
Tonio pointed the spatula at him. “You have to admit, the bread is trash.” He grabbed a slice from the counter, sniffed it, and made a face. “It’s basically cake.” He tossed it back in the bag, like even touching American carbs might infect him.
“Then stop eating it,” Sal said. “No one’s forcing you.”
“Pietro, you want?” Tonio said, not waiting for an answer before dumping a pile of soft eggs onto a plate and sliding it down the counter in my direction. He poured a two-finger shot of olive oil over the top and handed me a fork.
I nodded my thanks. The saltiness was perfect, the egg hot and slippery on my tongue. For a second, I forgot I hadn’t wanted food in the first place.
Tonio beamed, like he’d single-handedly solved world hunger. “See? He likes it. You could learn something from me, Salvatore.”
Sal made a noise in his throat, straightened the stack of papers, and let the silence stretch. Tonio didn’t mind. He leaned against the counter, fork in one hand, phone in the other, and started scrolling. Probably Instagram, or footie highlights from Serie A. He had ninety seconds of attention span for anything, unless it involved a woman or a soccer ball. Or guns. Or cars. Sometimes all four.
I finished my plate and went to rinse it, but Tonio snatched it away and dumped it in the sink. “I got you, bro. Don’t worry about it.” He meant it, too. Sometimes I thought he was the only one among us who genuinely liked doing things for other people.
“You hear from Serafina?” I asked, not sure why I’d taken the risk. The question hung in the air for a second, sharp as a splice of wire.
Sal’s fingers stilled on the page. He didn’t look up. “Not since Thursday. She’s fine. Pregnancy all fine.”
Maybe other people would find it strange that we knew the details of our cousin’s pregnancy, of her doctor’s visits and strange cravings. But her father was Arturo Scordato, and he’d asked us to take care of her, so we did.
“I heard she’s gonna call the baby Antonio Junior,” Tonio joked.
“Don’t want to curse the little thing,” Sal replied.
Tonio ignored Sal’s jab, finished his eggs, licked the fork, then flopped into a chair and slung an arm around Olimpo’s neck. “You got plans today?” he asked me.
