“Don’t worry, meet me at the corner café for a quick espresso and we’ll talk. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“See you in fifteen minutes.”
Shit.
I don’t know what she’s found out, but I need to get her to tell me. On top of all this, I have the poker game to run tonight.
I grab a coat and walk quickly from my condo to the corner café.
As soon as I enter, I see her standing at the counter. I can’t let Dante down, so I need to take control, but with my charming smile so as to not scare her off. She needs to trust me.
The Sicilians and a few other crime families are notorious for being more ruthless to get their way. The Sicilians have even been known to go after innocent civilians. The families who come from impoverished countries tend to have a different regard for life than those of us who grew up with freedoms, liberties and a stable economy. I can only imagine what might be hovering around her.
“Prende.” I call her name to get her attention.
“Oh, Marchello.” There is an inkling of relief in her voice.
“I need your help.” She lowers her voice to almost a whisper and wrings her hands together, her face is pale.
I’d love to scoop her up in my arms and tell her everything will be fine but this is not the time or the place.
“For sure, what is it? Wait. I’ll order for us.”
The curls around her face bounce when she nods.
“Great.” I order two espressos and we move down the bar to wait for them.
“Look, my uncle wants me out of the contract for Dante’s wedding, something about my dad in your clubs and well. . . he thinks your family killed my father.”
I chuckle. “That’s what he told you? Huh?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid of him, but more importantly, he implied I should be more afraid of the men he works with, the ones I don’t know.”
I rub my hand over my chin. “That’s interesting.”
“How so?”
The barista sets the espressos on the counter and we both add sugar.
“Not here. We’ll talk outside.”
I toss back the espresso. She finishes hers in four tiny sips before she’s ready to follow me outside.
The skies turn grey, the wind picks up and the smell of imminent rain fills the air. I look north and find a wall of water heading our way.
“Let’s get inside the art museum before the rain hits. It’s right around the corner.”
“Okay.”
I take her hand, grabbing it as we run the two blocks to the museum. I watch for cars and pedestrians steering us down the sidewalk, then dodging around a couple huddled under an umbrella flapping in the wind.
Prende squeals like a child playing as she jumps over puddles with wild abandon, and I can’t help but laugh at how cute she is.
Her low-cut boots splash through the quickly forming puddles and we all but stumble into the warm museum. Suddenly, the noise of the traffic and the rain is no more. The museum is empty, and the quiet stillness makes us feel like we’re intruding into a sanctuary of a monastery.
Thank God the place is open, because with most places being closed on Mondays and every afternoon, it’s difficult to remember when shops and museums are open, even for those of us who live here.