Chapter 10 - The Table on 31st Street
It was a cold, sunny Saturday afternoon in November.
The trees along 31st Street had lost their leaves, their bare branches etched like dark ink against a pale blue sky. The air was crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and roasting turkeys from the local bakeries.
In Apartment 3B of the brick building at 1422 South 31st Street, the kitchen radiator was humming softly—a quiet, hot, efficient sound that filled the room with a comfortable heat.
The narrow kitchen smelled of roasted garlic, seared steak, and fresh peach cobbler baking in the small oven.
Eight-year-old Leo was sitting at the new, thick oak dining table—a sturdy, six-seat table that Niko had personally carried up the three flights of stairs two days ago—with his drafting kit spread out across the clean surface. He was using a brass compass to draw a perfect arch on a piece of blue graph paper.
Beside him sat Niko Rosetti.
Niko wore a comfortable dark green wool sweater and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, showing his scarred skin. He was holding a small wooden triangle, adjusting the angle against Leo’s drawing.
“If you put the support strut here, Leo,” Niko said gently, pointing with his pencil, “the weight from the center span shifts to the foundation. It won't shake when the trucks drive over.”
Leo examined the drawing with intense third-grade concentration, then nodded solemnly. “Trusses.”
“Trusses,” Niko agreed with a small smile.
Emma walked over from the stove, holding a wooden spoon in one hand and wearing a white apron covered in flour smudges. She looked down at the two of them—at the former mob boss of Chicago helping an eight-year-old boy draw Popsicle-stick bridges on a Saturday afternoon.
She reached down, brushing her hand softly over Niko’s shoulder.
Niko turned his head, looking up at her with eyes that were clear, calm, and completely devoid of the old darkness.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Emma said, her dimpled smile bright in the warm kitchen light. “Did you set the table?”
Niko reached into his pocket, pulled out three clean cloth napkins, and laid them out beside Leo’s drawing board.
“All set,” Niko said.
The doorbell rang—the sharp, metallic buzz-buzz of the entry intercom beside the refrigerator.
Emma looked at Niko with a playful eyebrow raised. “Expecting any former underbosses?”
“No,” Niko said, standing up and wrapping his arm casually around her waist, pulling her close against his side. “I think Marco is dropping off the turkey for Thanksgiving.”
Emma leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart.
Outside the window, the 66 bus rumbled down 31st Street, its yellow lights shining through the clear glass, carrying people home through the cool Chicago afternoon.
Niko Rosetti looked around the small, warm kitchen—at the clean draft from the radiator, at the drawings of bridges on the wall, and at the woman standing in his arms.
May you like
He had turned forty in the rain, humiliated by a host in a gold name tag.
But today, sitting at a sturdy oak table in Bridgeport with a plus-size single mother and an eight-year-old engineer, the king of Chicago had finally found his home.
