From the Don's Son's Plus-Size Girl to His Brother's Claim novel · Chapter 18 of 24

Chapter 18: Thanksgiving

Nobody in the line moved.

Rosario stood very still with his overcoat half buttoned.

Killian put down the knife he was slicing with.

I wiped my hands on my apron.

"I'm the girl who makes the sandwiches," I said. "What can I get you?"

Cristina's father looked at me for a long moment.

Then he looked at the plywood over our window, at the white OPEN painted on it.

"My daughter came home on Monday in a cab," he said. "She said she'd been in a deli at five in the morning. She hasn't been awake at five in the morning since she was born."

"She didn't like the coffee."

"She told me."

Something moved under his heavy face. It wasn't a smile.

"She also told me you made her laugh. Nobody's made her laugh in a year. I wanted to see what was here."

"A deli," I said. "And thirty-one stitches."

He looked at Killian's back, at the way he was standing.

"You took glass for two women," he said to Killian. "Your father taught you bad habits."

"He taught me to stand in front of people," Killian said. "I picked the people."

Scalise turned his flat brown eyes on Rosario.

"Christmas Eve," he said. "I'll be at your table. Your son made me some promises. We'll see who keeps theirs."

Rosario didn't answer.

His hand had stopped on his coat button, and it stayed there.

Scalise looked back at me.

"So," he said. "What does a war cost?"

I took a ham and swiss off the rack, already wrapped, and set it on the glass in front of him.

"Eleven fifty," I said.

He stared at it.

Then he laughed, one short bark, and took out a hundred and put it down.

"Keep it," he said. "For the window."

"We don't need it for the window. Put it in your daughter's cab fund."

The line made a sound. My mother made a louder one.

Scalise picked up his sandwich and his hundred and walked out, and his men fell in behind him on the sidewalk.

Rosario finished buttoning his coat.

He didn't look at anyone.

"Christmas Eve," he said, and left.

A week later, the plywood was gone and there was new glass in the window with FENNELLY'S painted on it in gold.

On Thanksgiving my mother cooked like she was feeding a parish.

A turkey the size of a toddler. Stuffing with sausage. The green bean thing with the onions. Three pies.

"There are three of us," I said.

"Look at him." She pointed a wooden spoon at Killian, who was mashing potatoes at the counter with his sleeves rolled up. "He's three of us."

"I'm one and a half," Killian said.

"You're three, and you're putting butter in those potatoes like a coward."

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