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Or wants the pros of being a wife without the cons?
So why the ring?
Continuing my patrol, I make my way through the kitchens, the rest rooms. It’s almost routine.
Almost, but not quite…
I know that, even without my sending Schmidt separately, Romano’s sweepers will have checked the restaurant out before he arrived. But of course, Romano’s enemies know that too. I stick to my routine, working through the premises.
She’s wearing his ring…
So… Romano’s going to divorce Angelina?
Doesn’t seem likely…
Her family would never stand for it…
… surely…?
Nothing flags as untoward. Most of the tables are occupied, only one waiting to be filled, set out already with a Reserved plaque in the centre. Some of the other diners I recognise from previous occasions. La Dolce Vita is popular. It’s clientèle tend to return. A few familiar faces are to be expected. And the ones I don’t recognise seem unremarkable…
… A quiet couple, each scooping pasta with a fork, holding hands across the table...
… A family. He’s rattling continuously on about something I can’t pick out, punctuating his proclamations with the jab of a fork. She wears a strained expression. Two teenage boys look bored witless…
Is that what family life is?
… A pair of women, enough alike that only their apparent ages say they’re mother and daughter.
I take my accustomed post in a niche at the back of the room, seeing without being seen, or at least, without being conspicuous. If anyone should notice me, in my dark suit and tie, they’ll take me for a waiter, or perhaps the floor manager.
From here, I have a view over the entire dining floor, the front entrance, and the swing doors to the kitchens. Legs astride, hands neatly folded, I stand ready.
This is my remit. My duty. What Romano pays me for.
And like this, I can watch… Her…
Katya eats beautifully. Not in the over-fussy way of someone showing off, or of some of those women who’ve been taught how to behave, but tidily, with the air of enjoying her food without being ruled by it. Nor does she limit herself to salad or small portions. Food is a pleasure for her. And she’s relaxed enough with Romano that she doesn’t put on a show over it.
He gulps at his wine. Two glasses already. She sips at hers, swallowing a bare mouthful, seeming to drink more to be polite than because she wants it. Instead, she washes down her meal with sparkling water.
Watching calories?
Health conscious?
Romano takes her hand in his, patting his other hand down on top, smiling and nodding, saying something quiet. She smiles back, the light of love in her eyes.
My stomach roils.
Without meaning to, I find myself inspecting my shoes.
Don’t be fucking ridiculous, man…
You’re a professional…
Behave like one…
Straightening up, I resume my vigil.
