Chapter 19 - The Cinnamon Morning
Against Lorenzo's vehement objections and the entire security detail's barely concealed panic, Dante conceded.
On a crisp, sunny Tuesday morning, Bellanote Diner was closed to the public from nine to eleven. Tony had personally flipped the cardboard sign to *CLOSED* and pulled down the dark vinyl blinds over the front windows. Two unmarked black SUVs sat at opposite ends of the block, their drivers watching every pedestrian, bicycle, and delivery van that entered Mulberry Street.
Inside, the diner was warm, smelling of melting butter, cinnamon, and grilled bacon.
Sofia sat in the very same booth where she had spent that terrifying night two weeks prior. But today, she wasn't hiding behind her father's overcoat. She was sitting upright, wearing a bright yellow knitted sweater, a glass of whole milk in front of her, happily dipping a silver fork into a stack of fluffy buttermilk pancakes swimming in maple syrup.
Tony stood by the counter, his white apron tied proudly around his waist, grinning from ear to ear.
"You like the cinnamon, little boss?" Tony asked, leaning down with exaggerated warmth.
Sofia looked up at the old Italian cook. A smear of syrup glistened on her cheek. She nodded twice, vigorously, then stabbed another piece of pancake.
"She likes it," Maya laughed, sitting across from her with a cup of black coffee.
Dante sat at the end of the booth, his back to the wall, his eyes never truly settling. Even while watching Sofia eat with visible pride, his gaze continually flicked to the front door, to the window blinds, to the reflection in the stainless-steel napkin dispenser. He was a creature born of violence, incapable of total relaxation.
"Relax, Dante," Maya murmured under her breath, kicking his expensive leather shoe gently under the table. "Nobody is coming through that door."
"That is precisely when they come through the door," Dante replied softly, his fingers tapping a rhythmic tattoo against the laminate table. But when Sofia reached across and handed him a blueberry on her fork, his hard mouth melted into a tender smile, and he opened his mouth obediently to let her feed him.
For forty-five minutes, Bellanote was an oasis. There was laughter. Sofia drew another crooked cat—this time in orange and brown—and Tony proudly taped it to the diner’s stainless-steel refrigerator with two magnetic clips.
"A permanent exhibit," Tony declared proudly.
At ten-forty-five, Dante looked at his gold watch. "Time to go. Lorenzo is waiting at the perimeter."
Sofia made a small, disappointed pout, but she climbed out of the booth without resistance. She took Maya’s hand and squeezed it tight.
"Saturday?" Sofia whispered, her voice clearer now, though still quiet.
"Saturday," Maya promised, crouching down to button the girl's wool jacket. "We're going to paint pumpkins."
Dante stepped forward, helping Sofia pull her knit cap down over her dark curls. As he straightened, he looked at Maya. For a brief second, his hand lingered against her shoulder, his thumb brushing the collar of her denim shirt.
"Thank you," Dante said, his voice stripped of all pretense. "For this. For giving her back a normal morning."
"She's an easy kid to love," Maya replied, her heart beating a little faster beneath his touch.
Dante nodded once, then took Sofia’s hand and led her out the front door. The brass bell chimed brightly.
Maya stood by the counter, watching through the crack in the vinyl blinds as Dante escorted his daughter to the waiting armored SUV. Two guards opened the rear doors, Sofia climbed in, and Dante followed. The heavy doors slammed shut, and the black caravan smoothly accelerated down Mulberry Street, disappearing around the corner toward the highway.
Maya turned back to the kitchen, feeling a strange, hollow ache in her chest.
"You're in deep, girl," Tony said quietly from behind the grill, scraping the grease trap with a spatulated blade.
"I'm just helping a child, Tony," Maya said, grabbing a spray bottle of sanitizer.
"You're not just helping a child anymore," Tony said, shaking his gray head. "Look at the way he looks at you. Dante Russo has looked at the world with a gun sight for fifteen years. Today, he looked at you like a drowning man looking at the shore."
May you like
Maya didn't answer. She sprayed the table, her mind spinning with a confusing storm of fear, warmth, and an undeniable attraction she knew was completely reckless.
***
