Chapter 10 - Rain Over the City of Stone
The diner door opened with its familiar brass chime, but this time, the night air that rushed inside carried the clean, sharp smell of cold asphalt and clearing skies. The torrential deluge had broken, degenerating into a faint, misty drizzle that clung to the streetlamps like spun glass.
Sal stepped out onto the sidewalk first, his massive frame checking both directions of the quiet Queens street before holding the heavy glass door open with his forearm.
Behind him walked Vincent Romano, one large, tattooed hand resting lightly on the small shoulder of Maya Lin. In her arms, the glass jar of coins was carried with a strange, newfound lightness. She had dried her tears with Vincent's silk handkerchief, which was now tucked carefully into the pocket of her pink floral dress, its embroidered monogram peeking out like a talisman.
At the curb sat Vincent’s black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, its engine idling with a low, imperceptible purr, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the amber glow of the streetlights.
Vincent opened the rear passenger door himself, ignoring Sal’s attempt to take the handle. He lifted Maya effortlessly by the waist, setting her gently onto the butter-soft black leather of the rear seat. He took the heavy glass jar from her hands and placed it securely on the floorboards between her feet, ensuring it wouldn't tip over when the car accelerated.
He looked at her one last time, framing her small, tired face in the doorway of the luxury vehicle.
"Sal is going to drive you home, Maya," Vincent said, his voice steady and calm. "He’s going to walk you up the stairs, and he’s going to stand outside your door until morning. When your mother wakes up, you tell her that Mr. Gavalas won't be coming back. You tell her the rent is settled. For good."
Maya looked up at him, her hazel eyes luminous in the car's interior cabin light.
"Will I see you again, Mr. Romano?" she asked, her small voice cutting through the hum of the engine.
Vincent paused. A ghost of a smile, genuine and tragic, touched the corners of his lips. He looked at the crowned serpent on his wrist, at the dark history that stained every inch of his soul, and then back at the little girl who had offered him ninety-one weeks of strawberry ice cream.
"No, Maya," Vincent said softly. "You won't. People like me don't belong in the kind of world your mother is going to build for you."
He reached out with two fingers, gently tugging the droopy pink ribbon in her hair so it sat straight again.
"Take your mom to the truck on Sunday," Vincent murmured. "Get the strawberry."
Before she could answer, Vincent closed the heavy armored door. The latch engaged with a deep, vault-like thud that sealed out the night. Through the dark-tinted glass, he saw her small face pressed against the pane, her hand raised in a slow, hesitant wave.
Vincent did not wave back. He stood tall on the rain-slicked curb, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his charcoal trousers, watching as the black sedan pulled away from the curb, its red taillights cutting twin ribbons through the mist until it rounded the corner onto Northern Boulevard and disappeared.
Marco stepped up beside him, his phone lowered to his side.
"Scarlatti is at the warehouse, Boss," Marco said quietly, his voice tight. "He sounds nervous."
Vincent turned his back on the empty street and looked up at the clearing October sky. Between the parting clouds, a few cold, distant stars flickered above the silhouette of the Manhattan skyline—indifferent, beautiful, and ancient.
May you like
"He should be," Vincent Romano said.
He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, sparked a flame in the damp night air, and walked away into the dark.
