My people are working. I have four men tracing his last weeks. His business contacts. His personal associations. His finances. Everything clean so far. Everything gelato.
I pick up the whiskey. Put it down again.
I need her.
Not want. Need. The distinction matters. Want is appetite. Need is structural. Want is the whiskey on the counter. Need is the oxygen in the room. I need Valentina the way I need the architecture of my ribcage to stay intact. Without her, the contents shift. The organs press against walls that weren't built to hold them alone.
I call her.
"Come over," I say.
"I'm off at seven."
"I'll be here."
She arrives at 7:40. She's still in her work clothes. White blouse. Black skirt. Hair pulled back. Glasses. She smells like the restaurant. Olive oil, garlic, the warm bread smell that clings to the staff long after the ovens cool. She walks in carrying a bag from La Terrazza. Food. She always brings food, as if feeding me is a responsibility she assumed without being asked.
She sets the bag on the counter. Sees the untouched whiskey. Sees my face.
"When did you eat last?" she asks.
"I don't remember."
"Niccolo."
"I'm not hungry."
She unpacks the bag anyway. Some kind of pasta. A container of soup. Bread. She sets the food with a plate, fork and a glass of water in front of me the way she sets plates in front of her customers.
"Eat," she says.
"I buried him today."
She stops. Her hands go still on the counter. She looks at me. The glasses catch the overhead light.
"I know," she says.
"I held his mother's hand. She's eighty pounds. She felt like paper."
"Eat something. Then talk."
"I don't want to eat."
"I don't care."
Ieat. Not because I'm hungry. Because she told me to and the telling carries an authority I don't resist. Three bites of pasta. A piece of bread. The soup stays untouched. She watches me eat the way I used to watch my mother count pills during chemo. With the attention of someone tracking vital signs.
I push the plate away.
"He had daughters," I say. "Thirteen and fifteen. They wore dresses that were too small. Nobody bought them new dresses for their father's funeral."
"Stop."
"The fifteen-year-old shook my hand. His grip was strong. He's trying to be the man of the house. Fifteen years old."
"Niccolo. Stop."
She's in front of me. Her hands on my face. Both of them. Palms on my jaw. Fingers on my cheekbones. My eyes are level with her collarbones. The hollow of her throat where her pulse beats. I can see it from here. Steady. Sixty-something beats per minute. A pulse rate that never seems to change regardless of the circumstance.
