The blade enters below the left ear. Lateral. I feel the resistance of skin, the pop of fascia, then the soft give of thejugular. I twist. Pull. The cut opens to four inches. Blood sprays against the inside of the jacket, contained by the linen, the fabric darkening from grey to black in a spreading bloom that doesn't reach the hallway walls.
He drops the Glock. His hands go to his throat. The jacket is still over his head, bunched, soaked. He makes a sound that the jacket muffles into something barely audible. A wet cough. A gurgle. Nothing that carries over brushed snare drums and an upright bass.
His knees hit the floor. I step to his side. Keep my hand on the jacket collar, holding the fabric in place, containing the blood flow inside the linen shell. His body jerks twice. Three times. Then sags.
I lower him to the floor. He weighs more than I expected. Dead weight always weighs more than you expect because the muscles that held the skeleton upright have stopped contributing. He's a sack of bone and fluid now.
Fourteen seconds. Start to finish. Fourteen seconds of silence in a hallway while the jazz trio plays and the other diners eat sea urchin and the Don washes his hands six feet away behind a door.
I work fast.
The women's restroom is three feet to my left. I push the door open with my elbow. Drag him inside by the jacket collar. His shoes leave two faint streaks on the tile. Inside, the restroom is small. Two stalls, a sink, a mirror. I pull him into the second stall. Lift him onto the toilet. It takes effort. I brace my legs, use my back, lever his dead weight onto the seat. He slumps but the stall walls hold him upright, his head against the partition, the jacket still bunched over his face.
I close the stall door. Lock it from the inside by reaching over the top. My arms are long enough. Barely.
The Glock is in the hallway. I step out, pick it up, bring it back. Tuck it into his jacket. His blood is pooling on the tile inside the stall. It won't be visible from outside. The door reaches to within an inch of the floor.
I check the hallway. Two streaks of blood on the tile, thin, faint. I grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, wet them at the sink, wipe the hallway floor in four fast passes. The streaks disappear. The paper towels go into the trash bin inside the women's restroom.
I check myself. Blood on my right hand, the knuckles, between the fingers. A single drop on my left wrist. Nothing on my dress. Nothing on my face. The black cotton doesn't show stains in low light.
I wash my hands. Hot water. Soap. The blood dissolves. I wash my wrist. Dry my hands. The knife goes back to my thigh, cleaned on paper towels first. The buckle clicks.
Mirror. I look at my reflection. Hair slightly displaced from the exertion, a strand falling across my forehead. I tuck it behind my ear. Adjust my glasses. The girl in the mirror looks like a woman who went to the restroom during dinner. Nothing more.
I step into the hallway. The jazz trio has moved on to a new song. Something with piano now. Light, floating, the kind of music that makes people order another bottle of wine.
The restroom door opens behind me.
Niccolo.
He steps into the hallway, adjusting his cufflinks, the automatic gesture of a man who checks his appearance in the mirror after washing his hands. He sees me.
"Hey," he says. "I was just coming back."
"Me too."
We walk to the table together. He pulls my chair out. I sit. He sits. The paccheri is cold. The wine is warm. The candle between us has burned down a centimeter.
"Did I miss anything?" he asks.
I pick up my fork. Twirl a pacchero. Lift it to my mouth.
"Just the bread basket," I say.
He laughs. The full one, the one that changes his face. He reaches across the table, takes a piece of bread, tears it in half, offers me the larger piece. I take it.
The third course arrives. Grilled orata with capers, olives, cherry tomatoes that burst when the fork presses them. The chef comes out to check on us. Niccolo tells him the meal is extraordinary. The chef beams. I smile. The jazz trio plays.
In the women's restroom, a man sits on a toilet with his throat open and his jacket over his face. He will be found by a busboy or a dishwasher or the cleaning crew at the end of the night. The police will come. They will check the security cameras, which cover the dining room but not the hallway. They will interview the staff, who will remember the couple at the corner table, a man with silver temples and a woman in a black dress. The man with silver temples will not be connected because men with silver temples eat at Posillipo restaurants every night. The woman in the black dress will not be connected because nobody remembers the quiet ones. Plus the fact that we stayed and enjoyed the fullmeal instead of leaving right away will steer suspicion from us.
I eat my fish. Niccolo tells me about a monastery in Amalfi he wants to take me to. I tell him I've never been south of Salerno. He says this is unacceptable. I say many things about my life are unacceptable. He doesn't know what I mean. I didn't intend him to.
The check comes. He pays. We leave.
In the car, he reaches across the console, takes my hand. Lifts it to his mouth. Kisses the knuckles. The same knuckles that were covered in another man's blood forty minutes ago.
"Thank you for tonight," he says.
