Cesare turned around, looking out across the darkened airfield. Crickets chirped their summer symphony, and an owl hooted in the distance. Fireflies flit around the small meadow on the other side of the runway. It was enchanting.
Cesare could imagine Sabrina’s face lighting up with delight had she been there. He could imagine bringing her here often, and leaving keys beneath the mat after an evening flight, like it was a normal part of their Friday night.
His chest tightened with something he refused to give any more attention to. He took a step back just as the headlights of a Lincoln Town Car lit up the airstrip. Monty pulled up to the hangar, and Cesare got into the back of the car with a sigh.
Monty, seeming to sense his melancholy, said little. Cesare found his gaze resting on the back of Monty’s head as he drove them to the hotel; the familiar visual as they made their way back quietly served to bring him back to reality.
He would never be a local here. Living down the road and going for joyrides on the weekend wasn’t in the cards for him, and Cesare Lombardi had bigger things to think about than fantasizing about being normal.
“Will we be seeing more of Ms. Hamilton?” Monty asked.
Cesare stretched his feet out as he relaxed in the back of the car. “When we’re finished in Maine, she’ll be returning to Philly with me.” Cesare nodded.
Monty nodded. “If I may, boss, does she know that yet?”
Cesare grinned wryly, the contours of his chiseled jaw looking almost jagged under the faint glow of passing street-lights.
Monty gave him a knowing look through the rear-view mirror and nodded. “Anything I should know for tomorrow?”
“I want to bring her breakfast in the morning. Early.” Cesare requested.
Monty nodded. “Of course. What time do you want it delivered?”
“I want to deliver it personally. Seven o’clock in Kittery.”
“I’ll have something ready. We’ll leave at six-thirty.” Monty nodded.
Cesare checked his phone and scrolled through a series of messages from clients, a few notifications from colleagues, and a missed call from his dad. His brow furrowed as he returned the call.
Cesare Lombardi Sr. answered the phone. “Speaking.” The old man’s gruff voice made Cesare grin.
“Pops, you called.” Cesare replied.
“I did. What’s it take to get you to talk to your father once in a while, huh?” Cesare Sr. retorted, his Italian accent thick as ever.
“What do you mean, once in a while?” Cesare drawled back. “I spoke to you yesterday.”
“I’m sitting here alone in the dining room we fed you boys in every night.”
“I know for a fact you just had dinner with Stefano, and that Auntie Maribella came by with a baked ziti just in case the five-course meal you had wasn’t enough.”
Papa Lombardi grunted on the other end. “So what? A father can’t call his son and tell him he wants his face at the dinner table?”
Cesare shook his head with a sort of fond exasperation. “Sure you can, Pops. I'm just working.” Cesare answered, relaxing in his seat. “How are you? What are your plans for tonight?”
“Meh. I'm well enough. When are you coming back? I have a friend I’d like you to speak with when you return. He has some work for you. He needs someone good; someone discreet.”
“Where do you know him from?” Cesare asked.
“Oh, you know, college.” The older man grunted.
Cesare made a similar sound in response. Someone from prison, then. “I’ll see what I can do. Just give him my contact information, and we’ll go from there.”
“Eh, he’d prefer to discuss it with you in person. Face to face. I told him you’d call when you’re back in town.” His father answered.
Fuck. “Pops.” Cesare warned.
“Who put you through law school?” He asked, his tone taking on a steely edge.
