Dante
I slide into a booth at La Dolce Vita, an Italian restaurant I haven’t been to since before Frank Lombardi killed my father and inhale the garlicky air.
“Good, right?” Tony sits next to me. “I’ve been all over this place the last two weeks.”
I shoot him a look. “I’ve been all over whatever the hell Domino’s wife saw fit to feed me. Do you know what that is, by the way?”
“Yeah, I think she prefers a diet of ‘shut up, it saved your life,’ just like in the old country.” Tony picks up a menu. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
As if to prove his point, my chest burns.
“Yes,” I say. “And whether I’m ready or not, I have to get back into the game. She’s leaving tonight.”
Tony grunts noncommittally, thankfully pulling me away from the attendant ache of that statement.
“What? I thought yo……
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