Brown eyes widen under a mop of silky dark curls in need of a trim. “Are you sure, Mr. DeStefano?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, kid. I’ll put a little extra in your pay for you to buy shoes that fit.” Vince nods toward the gelato shop across from his restaurant. “Go on. Scram.”
Behind arms once primed for the boxing ring is Little Italy’s biggest softie. Vince’s bark—layered in a Brooklyn accent—is bigger than his bite. He growls and gets loud, but he’ll feed you with enough to-go plates to last a month. Vince couldn’t stay mad at people he loves if he tried.
“Look who finally graced us with her presence. Here three days, hiding out like you’re in witness protection. Did your A/C break?” Vince tugs me into his chest and kisses the top of my head, coated in sweat. “Come stai, principessa?”
“Sto bene, grazie,“ I say into the scent of his aftershave. I hug him tighter. “I missed your hugs.”
“Missed you too, kiddo.” He clears his throat. “Am I feeding you or are you leaving me to get a chicken box?”
I snicker and swipe a tear. “I’m here for the night if—“
“Yeah, yeah,” Vince huffs, leaving me to walk back to Vinnie’s, his namesake restaurant.
The brick row house twinkles under string lights over a green awning. Vinnie’s is the place where I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, and never put ketchup on pasta. It’s my second home, and it’d better have my box of Milk Duds I like to eat while watching movies.
It’s our tradition. He’d sneak me candy when he thought Mama Vee wasn’t looking. She would pop him in the chest before stretching the same hand out for her “Mom tax.”
“Vince,” I call after him.
“How you doin’? Here for the show?” he asks a young couple seated on the patio. Ignoring me.
“Fantastic, as always,” says a woman in a sleeveless top and Bermuda shorts. Her eyes drift toward me. “Is this your daughter?”
“Found her in a basket next to a delivery truck,” Vince answers.
I swat his arm. “You did not!”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone asked if he was my dad. His olive skin is lighter than my amber hue. Where our features differ, there is no mistaking that I inherited his sarcasm, the Italian he’s taught me since I was little, and a stubborn streak the best priest couldn’t exorcise.
“I’ve been feeding this one since her mother brought her into my restaurant when she was a baby. Bianca is a pain in my ass most days.” Vince chuckles before his eyes soften. Bags weigh under them from the years, but they still hold the same affection. “She’s one of the best things to happen to me. Not my blood, but that’s my kid.”
Damn this heat and these tear ducts.
I never knew any of my biological relatives, but I’d never gone without family.
Vince is the main man in my life. The one who picked me up when I was down and taught me to throw a hook when my opponent expects a jab. I learned grace and joy from Mama Vee. Vince schooled me on taking no shit from anybody, especially men unworthy of me. I’ve dodged so many bullets by not entertaining the bare minimum. Every key doesn’t unlock my devotion or my pussy.
“Your Milk Duds are in my office,” Vince says. “I’ll see you soon.” He pecks my cheek before flagging down a server to grab a block of imported cheese.
I skip up the two steps to Vinnie’s and wave at Ebony on the landline at the host station. The restaurant is always busy, and tonight is no different. People come from around the way and out of town to enjoy the best lasagna and gnocchi in Baltimore.
The main dining room is at capacity. Guests sit at tables lined with black cloth. Old photos of the neighborhood decorate cream walls. The oak floor still has its luster, proudly wearing age marks like medals of honor.
Birthdays.
Graduations.
Promotions.
Engagements.
Decades’ worth of celebrations held in this restaurant, my own framed on the steps leading to Vince’s office. Vinnie’s feels like a personal invitation into Vince’s house two blocks away.
The smell of garlic, fresh herbs, and sauce float through the hallway lined in merlot-striped wallpaper as the staircase to the top floor creaks under my wedge sandals. A small table and dining chair are across from a private room used for special events. Beyond the single bathroom and elevator is a solid oak door I push open, transporting me back to my childhood.
Vince’s office is a collection of books on shelves coated in dust and the worn leather chair he smokes cigars in whenever he’s alone. Everything is the same. The rusty filing cabinet leaning to the side that Mama Vee fussed over deserved a trip to the dump. The desk I played under after preschool until it was time to go home. It still faces away from the large windows with a clear view of tonight’s show. Vince never gave his back to the door and complained about the sun until Mama Vee made him custom drapes.
