Indebted to the Mafia King
Two And a Half Years Later

Eleni

"Fuck you too!" I yell at a taxi driver leaning on his horn in the center of Athens, yanking my handlebars so I just barely avoid slamming into his hood.

This is what I get for taking a class that gets out at two. But this is the only time Professor Vasiliatos offers his thesis review. Tasia's going to be furious. Still, by the time I make it far enough out of the city center to smell the ocean breeze, a little of my irritation has burned off. The start of a new semester is always like this. I always decide I never should've taken these classes or this major or decided for the umpteenth time that the feeling of freedom on a bike is more important to me than the ease of a driver. And as soon as I get used to the routine, it'll feel as easy as breathing.

Just like wheeling my bike up to the whitewashed house with the cobalt shutters towering over the restaurant Gregorio's, for Baba. I chain it to the post out back and dart inside.

Warm cooking smells overwhelm me, along with the clatter of a full kitchen. I duck under a white-coated arm and leap over one of the new hires, crouched on the floor trying to find something. At the center of the chaos stands Mama, directing it like a symphony. No sign of Tasia, but that doesn't mean anything. Ismene, our hostess, sometimes takes her out front because she's "good for business."

"Mama!" I call.

She looks up and smiles, but she doesn't move away from whatever she's stirring on her industrial stove. A class that gets out at two means I arrive in the middle of the lunch rush, too. "Where's Tasia?" I ask.

"Upstairs," Mama replies. "And I haven't seen Dante yet."

I grimace and race upstairs. Late, late, late.

Dante's voice floats down the stairs before I even reach the top. "Oh, you're not tired? Well, what about...this!"

High, sweet giggles chase his words. I reach the top of the stairs and stop. In the middle of the rug that covers the tile floor, Dante holds two-year-old Anastasia in a mock version of a headlock. She squirms, laughing. "Come on, Tasia, you're Greek!" he goads. "Your ancestors invented wrestling."

Tasia should be down for her nap by now, so Dante can go back to work, but she won't go down without me here. Still, my heart feels like it's about to burst. She has his dark curls, and when she twists her head back to look at me, she has the same blue eyes as Mama and I. My beautiful baby girl.

"Mama!" she shrieks, throwing herself against Dante's hold.

He releases her with a smile, and she pelts across the floor to throw herself at my legs. I stroke her hair for a second. Everything is sunny, and warm, and no one has pointed a gun at us in over two years.

Tasia has my patience, though, so she begins trying to climb my legs. I scoop her up.

"Have you been giving your papa trouble?" I ask.

She shakes her head, giggling.

With a snort, Dante begins gathering up her toys.

"So when I take you for your nap, you're going to go down nice and easy?" I say coaxingly.

Tasia screws up her face but nods. "Like I pomised."

"Good girl." I kiss her on the forehead and start toward her room. On the way, I pause next to Dante. "We're still on for tonight, right?"

He grins. "Wouldn't miss it. I just have a few hours of work to do."

My already bursting heart fills a little more when I remember that he means keeping the books for the restaurant, and that nobody is going to point a gun at him, either.

***

In our own kitchen, Mama sits at the table that evening. "No, Demi, the dill. How many times do I have to tell you?"

I lean against the counter, fixing my earrings in a mirror I put in the kitchen for just this reason. "Mama, be nice."

"I will be nice when she listens." Mama crosses her arms. "You want my engoní eating bad food?"

I mouth "sorry" to Demi, the private chef we hired for our own meals last year, when Mama started to slow down a little. Demi, who's both classically trained and a surprisingly good sport, just shrugs. Tasia claps in her booster seat. "Tanks, Yia-Yia!"

"That's right, I look out for you," Mama says to her.

Which is a funny way to say "spoil her endlessly," but I can't be mad. Tasia deserves it. I adjust the multi-tonal blue dress Gianna brought back from her last trip to Italy. She stayed with us for a while, but apparently, in Europe, the sedentary life just isn't good enough for her. The dress brings out my eyes and the stone in my engagement ring. Dante will love it, and it's perfect for the restaurant he picked.

I smile at myself in the mirror. No new scars collect on my skin, but I've got the first signs of wrinkles, and a couple gray hairs. Tasia is a handful. Every time I find a new one, Dante kisses it and tells me I'm just catching up. He really is perfect. "How do I look?" I ask Mama and Tasia both.

"Pitty!" Tasia declares.

Mama purses her lips. "That neckline, zouzouni...."

I laugh. Mama will only be happy when I wear a habit.

"I love you both." I kiss them on the head. "Call us if anything happens."

They call goodbyes after me. I walk outside, where I know Dante will be picking me up in two minutes. He sleeps in my bed, but he still insists on picking me up for proper dates. He says a gentleman has to.

A sleek, black sports car pulls up, and Dante grins.

"Mid-life already?" I ask, pulling a scarf out of my purse to tie my hair.

"Work went well," he replies.

He already takes the twists and curves of Greek cliffs like a native. By the end of the ride, I'm certain I've cried my mascara off, and my cheeks hurt from the wind pulling them back. But he's laughing like a kid, like he never laughed in New York, so I can't complain.

At the door, he greets a man in a short-sleeved button-down and slacks. "Iason! I brought the wife, as promised."

Iason glances at me, then does an exaggerated double-take. "Apologies, friend, I can't seat you. I'd risk the wrath of Aphrodite, allowing such a beautiful woman inside."

The two of them laugh like it's an inside joke, and I realize suddenly that Dante's shirt is gray, and his tie is the same blue as my dress. His suit is even charcoal. How long has it been since I saw him in all black? I don't miss it.

Despite his complaints, Iason seats us at apparently the best table in his restaurant, outside overlooking the cliffs. Dante and I hold hands throughout the meal.

He raises his glass. "To your last semester, and to being the first Calimeris to graduate college."

I knock my wine against his with a smile. "I'll feel better in a week. How's Tasia taking my absence?"

"Hard, as always." He sips his wine and nods. "But Mama knows to hire some extra help around this time now."

Everything is routine here. Sometimes, our life in New York City feels like a dream. I rub my thumb across the scar in the center of Dante's palm.

"Still happy at the restaurant?"

Dante feigns hurt. "Come on, El, I'd tell you. And with our little monster running around, it's not like I'm ever going to get bored."

Years ago, when we'd just moved to Greece, I was getting settled at NTU, Gregorio's was threatening to go bust, and Dante's injuries from his Russian captivity were slowing him down. I'd told him point-blank that we were a one-kid family. Tasia, as a newborn, was too much trouble. I wondered if we'd made the wrong decision by leaving the life, moving away from the city we'd grown up in, and leaving good friends who became family behind.

But as I look out over the cliffs, a feeling of rightness fills me.

"You know how I said we were a one-kid family?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow.

"What if we weren't?" I stare into his eyes, looking for any flicker of worry or disappointment.

Bold, brash excitement shines back at me, covered in a thick helping of love. "If I say I was waiting for you to ask, does that make me sound like a pig?"

"Depends." I grin. "Are you excited about having a baby, or making a baby?"

Dante slides a hand up my leg, dislodging the silky fabric. "Both."

"I love you." I kiss him softly, that warmth buoying all my movements. "So much."

"I love you too." Dante raises his free hand. "Can we get the check?"

My laughter rings out over the Grecian waves.