Chapter 5: Second Floor

The apartment over Colucci Provisions had two rooms, a kitchen and a radiator that clanked.

Pio carried up a dozen boxes without being asked, and left without a word.

By nine I had my mother's pot on the stove and a pillow on the narrow bed.

I did not unpack.

I sat on the floor with a shoe box of trucking receipts, because it was the one thing in my life that still made sense.

At ten someone knocked.

It was Raf, in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, and he held a covered dish in both hands.

"My mother made you eat," he said. "She asked if you ate. I said yes. She said I was a liar."

"I ate at her table."

"You ate three olives. I counted."

I stepped back and let him in.

He set the dish on the counter, lifted the foil, and the smell of braised beef and onions filled the kitchen.

I had not eaten since noon.

My stomach answered for me.

"Sit," he said. "I'll warm it."

"You don't have to."

"I know how to heat a plate."

I sat on the stool by the window and watched the most dangerous man on Federal Hill take down one of my mother's chipped plates.

He found the fork on the second try.

He did not look at me while he served it, and I was grateful.

When I finally took the first bite I made a noise I had not meant to make.

"Good," he said, and his voice was lower than before.

"It's the best thing I've eaten in a year."

"She'll want to hear that."

"Tell her."

"Tell her yourself next Sunday."

I laughed, and then I realized he hadn't asked me to.

He had said it as a fact.

We ended up on the floor with the shoe box between us, because it was the only way to count.

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