“He comes here every Tuesday at 7:15. Orders the linguine. Always sits at that table. He was eating methodically, fork, twirl, bite, sip, when the other man approached. Agitated. The victim’s hands were clenched, shoulders forward, classic pre-aggression posture. The defendant.” I catch myself. “I mean, he, stood up, one smooth motion, weight balanced, controlled. Military training maybe? Or martial arts. The victim got louder, invaded his personal space, approximately eight inches, really fucking hostile, and then.”
The officer is writing. Fast. Looking at me weird.
I keep going because apparently my mouth has divorced my brain and filed for sole custody.
“It happened so fast but his form was perfect. Efficient. No wasted movement. Then he adjusted his cuffs. Right cuff first, then left. He straightened his jacket. The vent in the back was slightly creased. And then he checked on me. Came directly to my table. Put his hand on my arm. Right here.”
I touch the spot. It’s still warm. “His hands were steady. No tremor. Pulse probably under 80. And he smells like bergamot and cedar with a base note of something darker. Leather maybe. Or that might have been the other man. Enzo. He smells nice too.”
“Ma’am.” The officer looks concerned. For me. About me. “How long have you been watching Mr. Marchetti?”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
“I wasn’t watching him. I was just... observing. Generally. The restaurant. He happened to be in my line of sight.”
“And you noticed all of this in the moment? During a traumatic event?”
“I notice things. It’s a skill.”
“You can describe his routine. What he orders. How he eats.”
God this sounds bad.
“I come here often. Same nights. It’s... coincidence.”
Three officers are staring at me now.
Across the restaurant, Dario’s being put in handcuffs.
He looks at me.
The same way he looked when he was making sure I could breathe.
And I don’t know what he sees in my face but something shifts in his expression.
Not anger. Not betrayal.
Curiosity.
Like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. Good luck with that. I’ve got missing pieces.
They lead him away and I give my statement to three more officers who all look at me like I’m either an incredibly detailed witness or an incredibly detailed problem.
Someone gives me a card for a victim’s advocate even though I’m not the victim.
I’m the idiot who’s been accidentally stalking a mobster for five weeks and just detailed his entire routine to police while he gets arrested for murder.
By the time they let me leave, it’s past midnight.
I didn’t finish my chicken parm.
I think about that the whole drive home. Not the body or the handcuffs or the way Dario’s eyes looked when he told me to breathe.
Just the chicken parm, gone to waste. Which is a goddamn shame because a good chicken parm is hard to find.
That and how I’ll probably never go back to that restaurant.
