STEVIE
The GPS chirps:
You have arrived at your destination.
No I haven’t.
I’ve arrived at the moment my life jumps the tracks and explodes in a blaze of Tupperware, emotional instability, and felony intent. Destination? Federal prison or Dario’s mouth. Unclear which would be more dangerous.
I park across the street from Carmine’s and stare at the restaurant through my windshield.
Same brick facade. Same green awning. Same restaurant where I watched a man bleed out on the floor while Dario Marchetti stood over him adjusting his cuffs.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
The Tupperware on my passenger seat radiates judgment.
I shove the containers into my purse and check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Blonde hair tucked under a hat. Sunglasses. The general appearance of someone who is either avoiding an ex or planning a crime. Both accurate, honestly.
“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “You’re just going to go in there. Eat some food. See if he shows up. If he doesn’t, you leave. If he does, you... figure it out.”
I get out of the car.
The smell hits me the second I walk through the door.
Garlic. Tomato sauce. Fresh bread.
My body panics. My stomach votes for pasta.
A hostess appears, menus in hand, smile bright and professional. “Just one?”
Just one. Just me. Just a dangerously undercaffeinated disaster who drove four and a half hours to maybe-maybe-not see a man she legally shouldn’t be anywhere near.
“Yes, please.”
She leads me to a back table with a clear sightline of the entire restaurant. Perfect.
Ideal for passive stalking.
I casually scan the room for one very specific Italian man in a very specific suit while pretending to read the menu like it doesn’t just say ‘Pasta’ a hundred different ways.
I’m subtle. I’m casual.
I’m the human equivalent of a red blinking light.
I order water and the chicken parm because apparently I’m on a nostalgia-fueled reenactment tour of my worst moments.
The server leaves and I’m alone with my racing heart and the aggressive normalcy of a Tuesday lunch rush.
No sign of Dario.
I check my phone. Check the door. Check my phone again.
Maybe I should just leave the containers with the hostess like a normal person dropping off a gift and not a federal witness violating approximately seventeen laws.
Hi, can you give these to Dario Marchetti? Tell him they’re from the woman he definitely remembers, the one who pointedat him in court and said his name like it was a death sentence. She made him cookies. Again. Because she’s not weird at all.
