Page 124 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Marco cracks his knuckles. "We going?"
I incline my head and set my mouth in a grim line.
"We eat. We smile. We remind him we don’t bend."
The trattoria is nearly empty and incredibly quiet for a Friday evening.
The usual buzz of conversation has been replaced by something curated.
Every table, save one, sits unused.
The waitstaff moves like stagehands before a performance, silent and synchronized.
There's no mistaking that my brother and I have stepped into Calvetti’s theater.
He sits at the far end of the dining room beneath a glittering chandelier, dressed in a tailored three-piece suit the color of blue smoke.
A single glass of red wine rests between his fingers.
He lifts it slightly in greeting.
"Dante," he says, with warmth that never reaches his pupils.
"Marco."
We exchange pleasantries, the kind that mean nothing.
The kind meant to fill space while everyone listens to the silence underneath.
The first course arrives—cured fish on black salt, drizzled with citrus oil—and the performance begins.
Calvetti speaks of business and shifting currents. Of necessary caution in times of uncertainty.
His voice is smooth, well-oiled, free of judgment but not of implication.
He circles the subject like a hawk.
Not diving.
Just watching for the stumble.
"You’ve been...preoccupied," he says, midway through the second course, an oxtail ravioli so delicate it breaks under the weight of a breath. "Domestic matters can be...consuming."
I swirl the wine in my glass and let the suggestion hang.
I don’t rise to it.
By the third course—veal with truffle and au jus so rich it might as well be blood—he leans forward, elbows resting lightly on linen.
"There are whispers," he says. "Concerns, let’s say. That your attention is divided. That perhaps your loyalty isn’t as absolute as it once was."
Marco stiffens beside me, his movements subtle in their warning.
I touch his sleeve lightly without looking at him.
Calvetti watches this.
Files it away.
