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“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not too scary. I think you can handle it.”
She looked back at me, her eyes hard and hot with anger. “Of course I can.”
I laughed and shook my head. I started walking, and she hurried to catch up.
She was too easy. I knew that would piss her off and make her want to show me up. But I could tell she also had a strange idea of what it meant to be in the mafia, and I wanted to set her straight.
I wasn’t sure why I cared what she thought of me. In a lot of ways, she was right, I was a killer, I helped sell drugs, I shook down assholes for protection money, I ran illegal gambling, I did all sorts of shit that made money but was morally questionable.
In the eyes of most average people, I was a monster.
But for some reason, I wanted her to see more than that.10ClairCrickets chirped and a few fireflies blinked as they floated past like tiny fat black zeppelins. I reached out and caught one, held it in my palm, watched its butt light up, then tossed it in the air and watched it float off again.
I sat on the back patio, a small stone slab that ended a few feet from the fence line. There was a small garden at the very back, though it was mostly growing weeds and a few flowers. The fence was tall and worn, blocking my view of the neighbors, providing plenty of privacy. It was cool out and comfortable, and I stretched my legs, smiling a little to myself.
The back door opened and Luca came out, holding a large platter in his hands. “Okay, you hungry?”
“Damn right,” I said.
He wore a white apron over his white button-down dress shirt and dark jeans. I leaned forward on the metal patio chair and put my elbows on the table, rattling the glass of white wine set in front of me.
“You’ve been talking up that stupid duck all day,” I said. “So it better be good.”
“Calm yourself,” he said. “You’re in for a treat.”
He placed a platter down in the center of the table. Two breasts were sliced into thin strips, along with a few other portions I didn’t recognize. It was crispy golden brown and smelled like heaven. He went back inside and came out again with a big bowl of fluffy white rice and a bowl of what looked like pickled vegetables.
“Okay,” he said, putting down the bowls. “I think Peking duck is normally served on these fluffy tortilla-type things, like giant fluffy dumpling rolls, but I don’t have those. So we’re getting white rice.”
“Fine by me.” I reached forward, served myself some rice and some duck meat, and lingered over the vegetables. “What’s this?”
“Just a little rice vinegar, sugar, a couple garlic cloves, and some vegetables. Made it yesterday so it’s pretty good now.”
I frowned, hesitated, then took some.
He served himself next, and for the next ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
I don’t think I ever ate something so delicious in my entire life. Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but the duck was crispy and slightly sweet and absolutely savory delicious, the rice was fluffy and perfect with a little soy sauce tossed on top, and the pickled vegetables were surprisingly tart and crispy. I helped myself to a second portion, finished my glass of wine and leaned back in my chair.
“Holy shit,” I said.
He leaned back and sighed, sipping his wine. “I know, right?”
“That was amazing.”
“Hog did all the work,” he said. “I just heated the duck up, more or less.”
“Seriously, Luca. That was, like, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“He takes days to make that stuff,” he said. “Better be good.”
“How did a chef like that end up in the mafia?” I asked.
He swirled his wine glass. “Same way most of us do,” he said. “Not many choices.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “I mean, everyone has choices.”
He gave me a half shrug. “Imagine if you grew up in a neighborhood that didn’t care whether you lived or died, and the only guys with any money, any strength, any respect were the mobsters. The idea of being a doctor, or a lawyer, it never even occurred to you, because that sort of shit was for someone else.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
He stared down at the table. “Something like that.”
“But you didn’t need to go down this path,” I said. “My mom always told me that the mafia ate its young and killed its old. Anyone left in the end was too hollow and broken to be a useful, healthy person.”
“Might be true,” he said. “Can’t really deny that the old guard are all fucked up beyond recognition.”
“So why would anyone want that?”
He sipped his wine and chewed on his lip. I watched the fireflies buzz around him, flashing and floating. He was so handsome and I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth, at the hint of teeth he showed, at the stubble on his cheeks and chin.
