When he started going too hard, I stopped him.
Not because she was breaking.
Because I recognized what was happening. The tension between us was so obvious the jury kept looking back and forth like they were watching a tennis match. And if Vincent kept pushing, kept talking about her obsession with me, everyone in that room would see exactly what I saw.
That she wasn’t just watching me.
She wanted me.
And I wanted her right back.
No strategy. No upside.
Vincent argued. Said another ten minutes and she wouldn’t trust her own memory anymore.
I said no.
And now she’s gone anyways.
The family gathers at the restaurant that night. Our restaurant. The one where this all started.
I sit at the head table with my father and uncle. Accept toasts. Smile when I’m supposed to smile.
Someone orders champagne. Someone else orders bottles of our best wine.
I drink water and think about Stevie sitting three tables diagonal, watching me eat pasta.
I could describe the exact way his jaw tightens when he’s annoyed.
That’s what she told the police. What Vincent threw back at her in court.
She’d been watching me. Noticing me. Paying attention in a way people usually don’t unless they want something.
But she didn’t want anything.
She was just... looking.
Seeing.
The same way she saw me after.
She saw me make a choice that wasn’t about the family or the business or covering my ass.
Just about making sure a scared woman didn’t pass out on a restaurant floor.
I’d noticed her too. Three weeks ago, maybe four. The woman three tables diagonal who always ordered chicken parm and couldn’t stop staring.
At first I thought she was surveillance. Someone’s plant. But she was too obvious. Too hungry in the way she watched.
I started looking forward to Tuesdays.
And then she sent me cookies.
Tell him I’m sorry.
That’s what she told Enzo. Like telling the truth was something she needed to apologize for.
Like I was a person to her. Not just a criminal.
