Chapter 12: Nonna's Table

We ran up the bakery stairs two at a time, and Santo drew his gun on the landing.

"Put it away," I said. "She said she's making coffee."

"Viviana..."

"If Nonna wanted help, she'd have said so. Put it away and follow me."

He holstered it, and his jaw was tight.

The kitchen over the bakery was warm, yellow and small, with a long oak table that had fed three generations.

Carmine sat at its head in his camel coat, with a cup of black coffee in front of him.

His hands were flat on the wood, in plain sight.

Two of his men stood outside the street door, and I'd seen them from the car.

Nonna sat at his right hand with her apron on.

Under the edge of it, a gun barrel showed, long and brown, pointing steadily at the third button of his coat.

Nico sat across from her with a mug of warm milk, in his pajamas, his hair standing up.

"Viviana," Carmine said warmly. "Santo. Sit. Nonna makes a wonderful espresso."

"I made it for the boy," Nonna said, in a flat voice. "Not for you. You get what you get."

"Mamma, I'm your son."

"You are my son. Drink the coffee."

I stayed on my feet.

"What do you want, Carmine?"

"A conversation. Without the Table, without the crowd." He looked at Nico. "Not in front of the boy."

"Nico," I said, "go to bed."

"I'm not tired."

"Please."

Nico looked at me, and then at Santo, then at the shotgun under his grandmother's apron.

He slid down from his chair and went down the hall without a word.

I heard his door close.

I didn't hear a click, because he hadn't turned the latch.

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