I have cookies and a death wish and a desperate need to exist in his orbit for five minutes.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I park down the street. Check my reflection. Blonde hair, hat, sunglasses. The holy trinity of terrible disguises.
I look like a suburban mom with a body in the trunk and an alibi she rehearsed in the mirror.
Which is exactly what I am, minus the suburban mom and body part.
I grab the cookies. Get out of the car. Start walking toward his house like I’m just a normal woman delivering baked goods to a mobster in the middle of the afternoon.
Act natural. Be cool. You’re not breaking any laws yet.
There’s a wreath on his door. Tasteful. The kind of wreath that says I have disposable income and opinions about seasonal décor.
I reach for the doorbell.
Stop.
What am I doing? I can’t ring the doorbell. I can’t just show up at his house and say, what? “Hi, I’m the witness who destroyed your life, I brought snickerdoodles? Wanna kiss?”
They’re not even snickerdoodles. They’re cranberry orange white chocolate.
God, I’m spiraling about cookie classification while standing on a mobster’s porch.
My hand, apparently operating independently of my brain, tries the doorknob instead.
It turns.
The door opens.
It’s unlocked.
I stand there, frozen, staring at the crack of open door like it’s a portal to another dimension.
Who leaves their door unlocked? A mobster. A crime family member. A man who definitely has enemies and should know better.
Is this a trap? Did he know I was coming? Is there a team of armed guards on the other side.
Or maybe he just forgot to lock it, Stevie. Maybe he’s a human being who makes mistakes like everyone else.
I should leave the cookies on the porch and go.
I push the door open instead. Step inside. And close it quietly behind me.
Jesus Christ on a criminal record. I just broke into a mobster’s house.
I’m in Dario Marchetti’s house.
I just... walked in. Like this is something normal people do.
This is breaking and entering.
The entryway is hardwood floors and cream walls. There’s a small table with a bowl for keys, empty right now, which means he’s not home. A coat rack with one jacket hanging onit. Everything neat. Organized. The home of someone who has systems.
I stand frozen, listening.
Silence.
