Page 6 of The Don

He grunts in return. I appreciate the honesty of Alfonso’s responses.

“When are they going to give up on planting someone in the restaurant?”

“Most likely never. And I appreciate the variety, in any case. Especially when they send someone who knows how to actually do the job. Buongiorno,” I call to Alma.

She jumps at the sound of my voice.

Alfonso snickers. “She’s just a child,” he mutters in gentle amusement tinged with annoyance.

“She is,” I say, looking at this woman the local police have sent in to spy on me with a sympathetic eye, even though she doesn’t deserve it. “They all are.” I’m speaking of Shae. She must be of a similar age to Alma, maybe even younger, and I want to look out for Alma the best I can, if only to honor Shae’s memory. “Watch her,” I tell Alfonso.

“Certo,” he replies. I see him turn to me. His smile is surprising in its easygoing innocence. Even Giulio couldn’t pull that kind of boyish charm off with a gun aimed at his temple. He turns back to Alma and waves.

Sometimes, Alfonso is the right person for the job, I think to myself.

I, too, wave at Alma, who only reminds me of Shae because I see her everywhere; they are nothing alike. Still, I pray that this isn’t the snitch I have to kill. I move past her to the front door and unlock it, motioning for Alma to enter first, just in case.

I usher Alfonso inside, and his smile slips. He raises an eyebrow and gestures for me to go inside ahead of him. He cannot leave my back so exposed. I’ve forgotten myself in this moment; this is all part of the performance. I’m just an old man to anyone who might be looking. And there are so many people looking.

The carabinieri, Interpol, and any number of my enemies; I have so many.

I walk through the restaurant, the smell of fresh pasta and basil in the air. I make my way to my office, my eyes going to the desk where I found the note, even though I burned it hours ago. I still need to figure out a response, but only at the right time. I’m not sure when that will be just yet, but soon. Soon.

I can feel something coming, and I’m too tired to pray that I survive it. So, I pray that Shae remembers me as a better man than I’ve ever been.

And then I fall into the familiarity of my routine, the cover story I’ve been crafting for years at a time. I take off my light jacket and hang it on the hook on the back of the door. I replace it with the same dark blue apron I always wear, even though I’ve never cooked a single meal in this restaurant. And before I go out into the dining room to take my regular seat at the same table where I was sitting when she walked through the front door, I close my eyes and press my right palm over my chest.

And then I think of Shae for a brief moment of calm before whatever this day will bring.

* * *

Shae

It’s probably the hormones, but I swear to God the closer I get to Naples, the more real Salvatore’s presence feels, which is terrifying because he has been very real to me since I left Italy all those months ago.

I mean, it’s obviously the hormones and probably jet lag, but seriously, from the moment I step off the train in Napoli Centrale, I feel the memory of that afternoon I spent with him; the small smiles, his soft touches, his fingers digging into my hips, his dick pulsing inside of me before he came. I could barely handle it when there were thousands of miles between us, but now that I’m back in Naples, my pulse is racing, my skin is slick with a sheen of sweat, and my pussy — Jesus, my poor pussy — is wet as fuck.

How am I supposed to live like this?

Actually, never mind, the terrifying expectation that I could turn a corner and see Salvatore is so much better than the way I’ve felt since the last time I was here. The moment I left him, I felt the weight of that goodbye like a pit in my stomach, and it has only grown since. It’s surprising that there’s room enough for a fetus in there as well, but the nugget is still small, I guess. I was so unhappy to return home that I blamed my mood on the worst and longest case of jet lag known to humanity, and I blamed the nausea on my anxiety. But I guess both of those symptoms were actually pregnancy. Wild.

And now that I’m back, tentative happiness wars with the fear that has become my best friend.

When I used to dream about returning here inexplicably, Salvatore met me at the train station with a bouquet of flowers. Or a pizza. Sometimes wine. But now that I know I’m pregnant, it’s usually pizza. I didn’t eat nearly enough pizza on my last trip. But most times, I simply fall asleep and find myself in that dark room, the metal table cool against my overheated skin, his fingers leaving small bruises at my hips, and his dick so deep that soon enough, I forget how my body ever felt without him inside me.

Waking up from that perfection is harder and harder each day.

Zoe and I stomp through Naples to the tune of her maps app. We go down streets I don’t remember, passing buildings that seem like all the others — ancient and crumbling, but beautiful. I can’t shake this feeling that I know exactly where KeKe’s coordinates are leading us, but longing and fear have warped my sense of reality for so long that I don’t trust my memories of these streets or this city, only him. Still, I feel full of pathetic hope that I’m going exactly where I need to be.

Where I want to be.

Aunt Caroline might say this is intuition. But I think I’m just dehydrated and tired.

My entire body goes numb when I see the familiar storefront of La Casa Colonica. The last time I was here, Salvatore was brushing his thumb across my cheek and looking at me like he wanted to kidnap me and run away to the mountains. I wish he had. I wish I’d told him that was what I wanted, that I would have killed to stay by his side. That I’d never felt quite as safe as I had when he was inside me. But a closed mouth don’t get fed, and I’ve been empty and starving since I walked away from him.

But now I’m back.

“What?” I hear Zoe ask. I don’t even know if she’s speaking to me, and I don’t care because I can’t tear my eyes away from his restaurant.

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