I steal one more moment with Maeve, pressing my lips to her forehead. "Be good for Uncle Stellan, love. He's going to take excellent care of you."
She makes a questioning sound, like she's not entirely sure about this arrangement. I don't blame her—I'm not entirely sure either.
"Declan." Zola's by the door, holding a light jacket. "We should go."
I force myself to step away, to let Stellan have her. He's competent, capable, and genuinely cares about keeping her safe. This will be fine. Probably.
"Only a few hours." I grab my keys. "We'll be back by ten."
"Take your time." Stellan's already settling onto the couch, Maeve content against his chest. "We'll be fine. Won't we, kid?"
Maeve babbles something that could be agreement or could be the start of a meltdown. I choose to believe it's agreement.
Zola loops her arm through mine, physically pulling me toward the door. "Let's go beforeyouchange your mind."
I don't tellher where we're going. Just drive through the city as evening settles in, windows down and warm air rushing past. She's watching the streets slide by, probably trying to figure out my plan based on direction.
"We're heading toward South Philly." She shifts to look at me. "What's in South Philly?"
"Dinner." I take a left on Ninth, navigate through the familiar maze of narrow streets. "Best Italian food in the city that's not some pretentious place trying too hard."
"You took me to that fancy place once." Her voice goes soft with memory. "Angelo's. I was wearing that black dress you bought me and felt completely out of place."
"You looked incredible." I remember that night—her uncomfortable in expensive surroundings, me trying too hard to impress her. "But yeah, that wasn't us. Too much crystal, not enough substance."
"Unlike whatever hole-in-the-wall you're taking me to now?"
"Trust me." I park on a side street, kill the engine. "You'll love it."
Rosa's is tucked between a shoe repair shop and a corner store, easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for. Red and white checkered tablecloths, photographs covering every available wall space, the smell of garlic and tomatoes hitting the moment we walk through the door.
"Declan Wolfe." Rosa herself appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She's got to be pushing seventy but moves like a woman half her age. "You didn't tell me you were bringing a date."
"I wanted to surprise her." I pull out a chair for Zola at a table near the back, away from the handful of other diners. "Rosa, this is Zola. Zola, Rosa makes the best carbonara you'll ever taste."
"He's right about that." Rosa studies Zola with sharp eyes that miss nothing. "But tonight I'm thinking osso buco. You like braised meat?"
"I like anything that tastes good." Zola settles into her seat, already more relaxed than she ever was at Angelo's.
"Smart girl." Rosa nods approvingly. "I'll bring wine. You eat what I make, no arguments."
"Yes ma'am." I've learned not to argue with Rosa. She'll feed you what she thinks you need, and she's never wrong.
After she disappears back to the kitchen, Zola leans forward. "Does she know who you are? What you do?"
"Everyone in this neighborhood knows what I do." I pour water from the carafe already on the table. "Rosa's nephew got into trouble with some guys from North Philly a few years back. Stellan and I handled it. She's been feeding us for free ever since, even though I always try to pay."
"And she just refuses the money?"
"Every single time." I shake my head. "Says keeping her nephew breathing is payment enough."
Zola's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "You saved someone's life and your payment is pasta?"
"Best pasta in the city." I correct. "Worth more than money."
Rosa returns with wine, two plates of caprese salad I didn't order, and a look that says we're eating what she brought or else. The tomatoes are perfect—fresh and sweet, the mozzarella creamy, everything drizzled with olive oil and balsamic.
"So." Zola takes a bite, closes her eyes briefly in appreciation. "This is what casual but nice means to you."
