Dominic
“I want him gone, Enzo,” I say into my phone, voice rough but controlled, while sitting at a small metal table outside La Dolce Vita Bakery in Bellavista.
The chair is uncomfortable. The street smells like sugar, coffee, and car exhaust. I don’t mind. I like knowing what’s around me.
A waitress sets a plate of cannoli in front of me. It lands a little harder than needed. I look up.
Her face is mostly hidden. White cap pulled low. Dark sunglasses too big for her face. Strands of black hair slip out and brush her cheeks. Her lips form a quiet O. She clearly heard me.
I pause. Lower my voice before continuing. She places a small espresso cup beside the plate, careful now, slower.
“Sorry,” I mouth to her.
She nods once. No smile. No comment. Head down.
My eyes drift to her nam
