Nico
Ah, Monday. Nico’s favorite day of the week. A chance to start fresh.
That particular Monday, the first thing to greet him after the alarm clock was his morning wood. Unfortunately, his girlfriend, Tracy, was at her own place and couldn’t assist him with it. They’d squabbled about something again last night, although what that something was, he couldn’t even remember.
He sighed, still half asleep, and let his hand trail down to his boxers, rubbing his palm up and down his hardening shaft through the fabric. Skimming turned to squeezing, and he resigned himself to a quick release so he could get on with his day.
In the shower not long after, Nico mused about Tracy and the no-sex trend in the relationship. A year of dating and his hand was getting the most action for the last month or so. He knew they needed to talk, but if she could just hold on a bit longer, he had a sweet surprise in store that would change everything.
Nico smiled, thinking about his plans as he walked to his barbershop a few blocks away from his apartment in the chilly March air, saying hello to about twenty people on the way. He loved this little corner of the Northeast Bronx, Anne’s Harbor, where he’d been born and raised. Loved being around family and neighborhood friends he’d known his whole life.
“Hey, Nico, how you doin’?” Carlo asked when he walked through the door into the warm interior of the shop. The scent of coffee from the pot near the breakroom enticed him, even from several feet away.
“It’s going good, sir.” Nico went to shake Carlo’s hand. He was the senior barber, an older man who’d worked there since Nico’s paternal grandfather owned the shop. “How you feeling today?”
Carlo shrugged. “I’m doin’ alright. Can’t complain.”
“Good man,” Nico said.
Their daily ritual complete, Nico got his station ready for the day and waited for the Monday morning regulars to begin streaming in. As he drank his first cup of Italian roast coffee, liberally sweetened and a rich black, his gaze settled on the photo of his maternal grandparents’ home in Parma taped next to his mirror.
In the picture, he stood between them with a big smile on his face, an arm around each of their shoulders. He’d be seeing them in September, in Naples, along with the rest of the family for the Festival of San Gennaro. He could not wait. Only six more months to go until he was back in Italy, his second home.
Tracy was going, too, for the first time. His mother was thrilled; she probably loved Tracy more than he did. For once, he wouldn’t be the lone gray sheep of the family with the cartoon-bubble question mark hovering over his head: “When will Nico settle down?”
This year, things would change. At the end of the festival, he was going to get down on one knee in front of the people he loved most and put a ring on Tracy’s finger. No, things weren’t perfect between them, but she was a great girl. His married brothers kept saying the next logical step was to seal the deal. Stop wasting her time. Go big or go home. Shit or get off the pot. They weren’t known for being the most romantic men, but he got their point.
And he was in his thirties. He wanted a couple brats of his own as cute as his nieces and nephews. It was time.
Nico’s eyes strayed to the other side of the mirror, to a postcard depicting the sloping town of Positano, awash in dazzling golden light. He could imagine them there, eating fresh seafood, strolling the beach, making love all night. Maybe they would honeymoon there next year.
As if she’d intercepted his daydreams from afar, Tracy texted.
“Nico. We need to talk.”
CAFÉ DESTINY
NICO
Five months later
Second Avenue,on the East Side of Manhattan, was relatively quiet for a hot August afternoon. Men dressed in suits walked with brisk self-importance up the steps of the subway and down the street. The vibe here was different from Nico’s part of the city, more monied, with a frenetic, unsettled energy.
He’d decided to drive rather than take the train or the express bus from Anne’s Harbor and fortunately found parking less than a block away from the diner. Nearby, New York Langone Hospital was one avenue away. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it looming. As he approached the diner, he was busy praying the whole time that the mysterious reason Tino had insisted on meeting him down here had nothing to do with that hospital.
Their father’s mother had had her pancreatic cancer surgery there with a specialist. It hadn’t ended well. That was the reason they knew this diner, having sat here over several sad meals between visits to see her.
Now Nico shrugged off the dismal memories of those days and tamped down the new concern over Tino as he walked through the door. Much of the diner’s interior decor and wait staff looked the same. Brown, mottled-marble tables with brown faux leather cushioned seats, ceiling covered in long mirrored slats, and orange paint on the walls. It might have been nondescript, but the food here was awesome.
“How ya doin’, hon. Take any seat you want,” the waitress told him.
She was an older woman with a kind face. Nico remembered her from his old visits. There was more Central American—or maybe Mexican?—staff behind the counters and bustling back and forth to bus tables, but the old Greek manager, with his bristly white hair, was still at the register.
Nico chose a booth on the right side of the long room, sliding into the seat facing the entrance. He’d watched way too many mob movies and heard too many questionable stories from his dad’s older relatives—both the Italians and the Irish—to sit with his back to the door. Placing his phone on the table and his Yankees hat next to him on the seat, he checked the time. Twelve fifty. He’d arrived a little early in his haste to meet his baby brother and find out what the hell was going on.
Without realizing he was doing it, his fingers brushed across the medallion he wore around his neck. St. Florian, patron saint of firefighters. His mother had given him this medallion when he joined the New York City Fire Department ages ago, it seemed. Still wore it for his brothers’ sakes, even though rationally, he knew it didn’t retain any magical ability to safeguard them on their shifts. As if on cue at the thought of his younger brothers, his phone vibrated, the insistent buzz making it jitter on the table. Tino. Nico answered the call.
“Hey, you nearby?” Nico asked, scanning the doorway and the plate-glass window.
