Page 16

We’ve all been waiting with bated breath for Crow to decide what to name the place. So, I’m not really expecting any news yet, but the sight of the new sign catches me on the sidewalk before I make it to the door.

Solano’s.

Simple, elegant letters in matte black against warm cream, clean and simple and completely on brand for a man who once threw a breadstick at Dutch for suggesting La Famiglia sounded more like a pasta sauce than a restaurant name. More importantly, it’s a name that means something.

I stand on the sidewalk and look at it for a moment, my heart softening as I think of Crow’s mother, Sofia Solano. The fact that he used the name of this place to honor a woman this city destroyed makes me love him that much more.

Crow is the quiet, contemplative one in our group. But I’ve learned not to be fooled by his reserve. I’ve never met anyone more thoughtful—and more prone to spiral from those thoughts—than Crow Martinez.

Inside, the place smells like bacon and fresh bread and coffee, which is the trifecta I came for. The early morning crowd is thin—a few locals reading newspapers at window tables, Bobby wiping down the bar with the same energy he’s applied to that task for the last twenty years. I was a bit surprised Crow kept him on, but he’s always been polite and respectful. Crow clearly saw past the goon who worked for Franco for two decades, and I’m glad he did.

The new windows let in the early light and throw it across the tile floor in long, warm rectangles. The effect is inviting and cozy. Franco’s restaurant used to smell like cigars and the specific cologne of men who thought intimidation was a personality trait. Crow’s version smells like family and good people.

I nod at Bobby, who nods back.

Since Claire is nowhere in sight, I head for the kitchen. I hear Crow before I see him; a low, unhurried stream of instructions about prep work that somehow manages to sound both patient and like a veiled threat. I lean against the pass-through window.

“So, you do make your own food here,” I say.

Crow grunts as he flips an egg. “This is a restaurant,” he says without looking up.

“Rumor has it you have a hex witch spelling the breakfast sandwiches.”

Crow glances at me, eyes narrowing. “No hex witch gets to take credit for my food.”

“I'll pass that along to Razor when I see him.” Crow growls as he realizes his brother is the one spreading said rumors. “I’ll also take a dozen of those sandwiches to go.”

He finally looks up at that. Just briefly. Something flickers in his expression—pleased, though he’d never say so—before he goes back to cracking and flipping eggs. “For the team, or are you stress-eating?”

“Very funny. One for me, eleven for Razor.”

Crow snorts.

A beat of silence passes as I watch my friend cook. He’s in his element here in a way he never was when we were always pulling jobs and undermining the corrupt leadership like it was our life’s work to save this city from itself. Despite everything he’s gone through in recent months, he looks steady here. Almost peaceful. I’m glad to see it. If any one of us deserves peace, it’s Crow.

“I saw the new sign,” I say quietly.

He goes still for just a moment. Spatula hovering. Then he resumes. “Yeah?”

“It’s perfect.”

Crow’s shoulders sag a little. A second later, he says, “You think Dutch will talk any shit?”

“Of course. It’s Dutch. But when he does, I’ll de-claw him myself.”

“From what I hear, Andy’s already doing the job for us.”

I snort at that. “Better her than us.”

He shakes his head, mouth curving.

When he finally glances up, the smirk is gone. Something passes between us that doesn’t need words.

I drop onto a stool at the pass-through counter. “How are you?”

The question lands differently than the banter. He lets it, which means he’s in a decent place this morning. There are days when how are you from me earns nothing but a grunt and a subject change, and I’ve learned to read which kind of day it is by whether he meets my eyes and whether those eyes are haunted.

Today, he meets my eyes. They’re clear.