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Florence fusses in the car on the way to Connie’s, picking at the bright blue dress she’s donned for the evening. She fidgets in the backseat next to Nino, carefully adjusting the man’s collar and trying not to order him to remove his shirt at once. For once, it’s not at the request of her hormones, but her nerves.
The man had been shot, for heaven’s sake, not a day before, and he’d still insisted on a full getup just to take her out for a nice evening. With Vittorio Puzo. And his date. With Vittorio Puzo, the man essentially paying for their livelihood, and his date, a woman she had yet to even meet.
“So he’s quiet and… she’s... quiet and—”
“Just be yourself, Flo. They’ll like you just fine.”
Nino laces his fingers through her own and draws her hand up to his lips. He rests his mouth against her knuckles until she lifts her eyes to his— sly dog— before kissing each digit slowly. Florence disregards their chauffeur’s quick glance in the rearview mirror and leans into the man, bumping their foreheads together. Nino’s eyes flick downward for just a moment before returning to her face and his lips squirm for a moment before he speaks.
“I know it was unexpected, my inviting them. They needed—” He pauses, weighs his words as Florence has come to expect him to around her. It’s endearing, and somewhat remarkable really, to watch him calculate every sentence before speaking it.
“—a night out… while they still can.”
There is a sense of pleading in his voice that muffles Florence’s annoyance at the sudden change in plans. In the little time she’s known him, flexibility has seemed important to Nino, to any mafioso really, and the uncharacteristic flinch in Nino’s face convinces her the situation is difficult enough without her arguing. As the driver pulls up to the curb at Connie’s, Florence’s minor frustration blends into a nervous uncertainty instead.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that he notices. Half blinded by pain and he still notices. Nino gives her a careful look of consideration, then squeezes her hand and pops the car door open for them.
“Thank you. Take you somewhere special later to make up for it?”
She mentally smothers the heat rising in the back of her neck at those words, then tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, silently warning him to take it easy. Seeing him laid out on a sofa bed was bad enough; imagining him passed out on the sidewalk sends a surge of panic straight down her spine.
"Elizabeth, don't you look pretty as a postcard." Nino grins and nods to a young woman standing beside Vittorio as they approach. He tips his hat just slightly, then glances towards Florence and shifts, his movements as practiced as his dance steps.
“Elizabeth, this is Florence.”
Nino shrugs her forward gently. Florence steps in close, her lips slipping upward into a smile, and Nino beckons to the two girls, a bit of pride seeping into his voice.
“Florence, Miss Elizabeth Colvin. And you know the boss, of course.”
Normally, she would have immediately honed in on the tall, broad-squared mafioso towering over the four of them, but this time, Florence’s focus is on Elizabeth alone. She’s heard of this woman, though it’s been mostly through accidental slips, Nino casually bringing her up over coffee, in such a brotherly tone that she’d never thought to be jealous. Now, watching the spark of intellect in her eyes and the cream silk drifting down to hug Elizabeth’s waist, Florence wonders if she should have been.
She’s quite lovely, Elizabeth, and if she’d drawn the eye of a man like Mr. Puzo— well, that’s a feat unto itself.
The pond Florence has imagined crossing in the small time she’s known Nino expands suddenly into an ocean and a hole opens up to swallow her stomach.
“Shall we? Place is tight.”
Nino’s voice breaks the silence and Florence throws a silent thank you to whomever may be listening. Tiny pins skate across her nerves and she swallows, willing herself to engage, to dive in. She’s not good at this, has spent less time with folks of her age than she ever has with the old bitties of her hometown or the children and couples she serves at Vesuvio’s. People in the market were always far more willing to watch her sketch up her newest subject than they ever were to chat about— whatever kids her age were supposed to chat about.
She had never been all that disappointed by it, but now, with two gentlemen dressed to the nines beside them and a band crooning notes into their instruments, she can hardly disappear somewhere and deem it an appropriate reaction.
"It's a little overwhelming, isn't it?”
Florence glances over her shoulder at Elizabeth as she and Vittorio crowd against her back. There’s something alarmingly comforting about the look of unease on the blonde’s face. She should be ashamed, being relieved at that look, but it’s almost vindication, watching another person shift as much as she does.
“Wait till the dancing starts, it's wild."
It’s not until Nino leads them to a table in the corner that Elizabeth replies. When she does, a stone drops hard into the pit that is Florence’s stomach.
“I love to dance, but is it really all right for us to be here with you?”
The woman’s voice is quiet and so unsure that Florence can’t help but scold herself again for her relief at her earlier discomfort.
“Maybe I should go. Vittorio can still watch out for Nino, and you two can have your date, and—”
Vittorio sweeps forward quickly, looping his hand into hers and drawing her towards a chair as he speaks low into her ear. Florence glances at Nino, trying desperately to keep the accusations from her face. She almost wants to drag him from the room and demand an explanation, break their silent rule to never dive deep, and ask every question she can until she understands Elizabeth’s apprehension.
But Nino looks tired and as she watches him half-collapse into his seat, she can’t bring herself to push him any further. She’d discovered over the past month that Nino rarely acted upon sudden impulse. He’d practically insisted on the date and as his concerned gaze trails across the table towards Elizabeth, Florence decides she can afford him a favor.
“I’m sorry, Florence—” Her name rolls wearily off Elizabeth’s tongue and she turns her head back to the woman. As she continues, Vittorio pulls two chairs out from the table and gestures towards them as if ordering them to sit.
Elizabeth makes it there first, dropping her hands to her lap and flattening them across her knees.
“—This was supposed to be your night, and if I’d been able to keep them from going, Nino wouldn’t have been hurt, and I wouldn’t be here intruding…”
Her words are just as quiet as before, but they come loaded with so much information that it makes Florence’s head spin. Perhaps this was exactly the reason she didn’t press Nino for details, if the alternative meant dealing with so many thoughts at once.
Keep them from going— did any of them hold that kind of sway over their lovers when it came down to steering them away from whatever it was they were set on doing? With the fond, worried look on Vittorio’s face, she ascertained he knew the woman well enough that she held some kind of pull. Still, requesting someone sit out on a job seemed like a tall order.
A look of shame crossed Elizabeth’s face as she spoke, glancing back and forth between Nino and her lap. The word “intruding” pricked at Florence’s ears; she knew that tone, knew the way one referred to themselves as aggressive and unworthy when they didn’t feel capable of a situation even so small as a night out.
Florence shook her head, shutting off her ears as an apology tumbled from the woman’s mouth. She quickly sits and, forgetting herself for just a moment, scoots the chair forward across the carpet until she comes knee to knee with Elizabeth.
"Usually, intruding requires a lack of invitation. And anyway, Nino does what he wants.” Florence nods towards the man; his face sits somewhere between a chuckle and a frown at her comment. Without bothering to determine which, she turns her head back to Elizabeth and gestures towards her own date. “I imagine so does Mr. Puzo. Our luck, huh?"
"Wouldn't have invited you, Miss Colvin, if I didn't think you should enjoy yourself," Nino assures from the side and Florence could kiss him for his timing. It was almost in a mafioso’s job description, double-teaming someone, but the man had a penchant for piping up at just the right time.
“Miss Colvin?
Elizabeth looks up at the title, glancing over at Nino as if it were a rare circumstance that he would call her such, and frustration twists in Florence’s gut. Elizabeth isn’t listening. It’s a moot point. Change of tactics.
“On the other hand—” Florence spins her menu and slides it across the table to her new companion. “—they know excellent joints for drinks.”
She tapped the sheet with a smile and as Elizabeth picks it up with a somewhat bewildered expression, Florence is reminded of her own first time at Connie’s. She’d been mesmerized by the sheer amount of possibilities from the start, especially before she had a clue of what she wanted. If Elizabeth feels out of place already, Florence knows it’s best to get her something simple and something alcoholic quickly.
“What would you recommend?”
Vittorio returns from where he’d disappeared with their coats at just the right moment. One glance at Elizabeth and he pulls the waiter aside quickly, confidently requesting himself a double sidecar “and a Mary Pickford, for the lady.”
He mutters something to Nino in Italian, but Florence ignores them both carefully. They chat quietly enough, as they always had at Vesuvio’s, but she manages to catch Elizabeth’s name now and again. It doesn’t take a psychic to guess they’re discussing the woman’s nerves and Florence digs her heels into the carpet, weighing topics that might soothe her sufficiently.
“If you ladies will excuse us, I need to speak with Nino for a moment.”
Vittorio’s voice interrupts her thoughts and Florence watches as he and Nino rise, adjusting their jackets as if they were afraid of the onset of wrinkles. Nino winks at her and she drops her eyes to her lap as he dips into the hall.
Florence isn’t stupid. She knows their discussion might just be a ruse, an excuse to give her and Elizabeth a moment alone. She appreciates it to an extent, hates it at the same time because who were they to think she was capable of smoothing over this woman’s stress? Calming children, businessmen, and overworked mothers is almost as much a part of her job as actually delivering food, but soothing an intelligent stranger like Elizabeth is another kind of challenge entirely.
“Ti amo, mia principessa.”
Florence looks up to find Vittorio brushing his lips against Elizabeth’s fingers. The moment is meant to be a private reminder, she knows this, but it’s hard for her to look away when the skittish woman returns his endearment without pause. It’s strange to see Vittorio Puzo so fond of someone, of anyone, and Florence’s head tilts to the left slightly as she watches the pair exchange smiles.
As they part, Florence delights in the timing of their waiter, who returns bearing drinks as proudly as if he’s delivering frankincense and myr to a stable in Bethlehem. It’s only with a great amount of self-control that she manages to wait until he leaves before sweeping her drink up and taking a long swallow.
“I’m sorry, Florence. I, um, Vittorio and I…”
Florence glances towards Elizabeth as she speaks, wondering if she should stop her before she finishes, remind her there’s nothing to be sorry about. Instead, as the woman places a single finger on her lips and seems to consider what she wants to say, the waitress eases back in her seat, shifting her body so it faced the woman properly.
“You know, I came to New York City to be a reporter, and now I’m the girlfriend of a mafia don—”
Heavens, the woman really did like to drop bombshells. Though really, she doubts getting into a relationship with a man like Vittorio was anything less than a whirlwind unto itself. Florence takes a slower sip of her drink; she figures it’s best to pace herself if the rest of the night continues like the beginning has.
And she’d rather not be swaying on her feet when Nino can hardly stand on his stone-cold sober. Best to prepare for the worst. The man had been shot, after all. The thought makes Florence’s stomach churn with concern and she drags her attention back to Elizabeth’s words.
“—rival to the one my father’s a part of—” Elizabeth swallows, looks about with wild, disbelieving eyes. As the girl stifles a mirthless laugh, Florence forces her hands flat beneath her knees. She doesn’t know Elizabeth, isn’t sure if the woman is as much of a startled deer as she seems, and she doesn’t want to scare her off with an improper urge to physically comfort her.
“—because of that, it’s just been a hard week, that’s all, and it’s going to get harder again tomorrow. And I was so excited to meet you and now I’m making such a bad impression. Can we start over on that?”
The request startles Florence, sends a wave of delighted relief across every nerve, and she leans forward with a wide smile. She’s grateful she doesn’t have a tail; she’s never been particularly good at hiding moments of pleasure and in that case, it would have given her away entirely.
“You were excited to meet me?” The thought that Nino had mentioned her frequently enough that Elizabeth had wanted an introduction is an idea Florence struggles to comprehend. It had been a long time since someone genuinely wanted to reach out to her and the notion sends a rush of adrenaline straight up her spine.
She feels like she should say something, scoot forward and embrace the woman, insist that she has nothing to worry about, but somewhere in the back of her head, she thinks Elizabeth just might know something she doesn’t. So instead, Florence takes a breath and smiles.
“I understand. Your… situation, I mean. I'm a waitress. Hardly mafia material, I think and now- well, it's a brand new world, isn't it?" She lets out a careful sigh, considers the blur of her first month with Nino.
“Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Florence Baker.”
Elizabeth leans forward to grasp Florence’s outstretched hand and she beams, so genuinely that the stress lines on her face disappear for just a moment. Elizabeth’s cheeks glow in the warm light of the club and for a moment, the tightness in the woman’s limbs go slack.
“Elizabeth Puz-”
Florence’s eyebrows jump skyward at the woman’s answer, however Elizabeth withdraws quickly, swallows, and rephrases.
“Elizabeth Colvin. I wasn’t raised to be mafia material myself. I was raised on a farm in Kentucky. Had no idea my father was one of Mr. Juliano’s men until Vittorio and I were together.”
Elizabeth doesn’t explain further and Florence doesn’t press. There are things she guards so close to her chest that they’re practically welded to her skin. She imagines it’s the same way for Elizabeth, or at least should be, until whatever it is she’s so nervous about is finally settled.
“The night we were, Nino…” Elizabeth pauses again, rephrases again, and Florence has to wrap her hands around the edge of the table not to shout. The woman’s uncertainty returns with painful haste and Florence watches Elizabeth fold a nagging thought back beneath her tongue.
“Mr. Ricci and I had a conversation.” Elizabeth leans forward, almost as if she wants to stamp her story into physical existence. Florence wonders if the woman has ever tried writing, in the moments she wasn’t twisted up in her new world of mobsters and trouble.
“We were both so afraid, Florence! But he convinced me to tell Vittorio how I felt, and then I told him he had to go after you. And I’m glad he did. Mr. Ricci doesn’t get nervous over anything that doesn’t matter greatly to him. They…”
She stops and considers the table, eyeing the newly delivered drinks as if she’s just noticed they’re there. Florence smiles softly, well aware of the feeling of forgetting one’s surroundings when distracted with something Mr. Ricci had done. Not daring to stop the woman’s story before it’s finished, Florence taps a glass glowing bright red and slides it wordlessly towards Elizabeth. The woman turns her drink carefully, plucks a small cherry out of it then drops it back in. Methodical, even in her eccentricities. A bit like Mr. Puzo, she imagines.
“—they may be in the mafia, but they’re good, loving men, and I’ve seen and experienced enough to know that their hearts are always in the right spot, and they won’t hurt anyone unless there’s a good reason. They aren’t saints, but also they’re not the bad men you hear about.”
Elizabeth talks. More than Florence ever has, or perhaps she just knows how to say what she wants to say better than Florence ever does. It takes her a moment, to swallow it all down, to catalog Elizabeth’s words to pick apart later. Right next to the idea that Nino Ricci could ever be afraid of anything. Could ever be nervous about someone like her.
It occurs to her then, why Elizabeth sounds like a storyteller, speaks like a poet. The name Colvin hangs down across the back of her eyes and it hits Florence suddenly.
"Read your article on the Sky Tower, by the way, Miss Colvin, you have a knack for drawing interest."
She means it as a friendly tease. As a nod to the woman’s talent for words, but Elizabeth’s smile freezes on her face. Her shoulders shift back into a guarded, locked position, and the passionate expression on her face falls away as she idles back into nonchalance.
Florence scrambles for words, confused at the woman’s sudden shift in mood, and she shakes her head, leans forward to grapple with the woman even as Elizabeth recites what sounds like a pre-written script.
“Thank you, Miss Baker, and I apologize for my lack of manners. Interviewing for that article was when I met Nin— Mr. Ricci and the second time meeting Mr. Puzo.”
There. She’d corrected herself again. Mr. Ricci when it should be Nino. Mr. Puzo when it should be Vittorio, her lover, her person—
“Welcome back, Mr. Puzo, Mr. Ricci.”
Elizabeth’s insistence on addressing them both by their last names again stings and Florence winces. As the two men slowly lower themselves back down into their seats, Nino glances towards Florence. Her eyes dart away quickly, dropping to the carpet with the weight of the guilt in her gut.
She should have done better. Should have provided them with two pleased, chatting women upon their return, not two nervous children unsure of how to speak to one another, wringing their hands and staring at the floor. It feels a little bit like she’s failed a test.
“Drinks?”
The woman’s voice is light and airy, chipper despite the situation, and Florence has to tune out the soft bells of Elizabeth’s voice. She wonders if Vittorio and Nino can pick out the lie in her tone; they must be used to people lying through their teeth, with what they do for a living. It’s just that Elizabeth’s puts a prettier spin on it, slipping each word out through full, red lips and a smile Florence has to believe she’s practiced.
There’s movement to her left; Florence carefully ignores it and focuses instead on a couple spinning one another around the dance floor. She’d much rather be doing that, moving to an already set beat and engaging in something that requires less of her gabbing. Florence’s skin itches and there’s a heavy stone on her tongue, blocking the question sitting at the bottom of her throat.
Nino should hardly even be up and about so soon after taking a bullet to the arm. Dancing is most certainly out of the question.
“Would you like to dance, my Elizabeth?”
Florence squashes down the sudden rush of envy as Vittorio’s golden tones hum from nearby. She glances towards the band, watches the trombonist arch his back and drag the slide forward with confident hands.
She can hear Elizabeth’s soft words drifting over Vittorio’s own, surprise and shy uncertainty slipping into each syllable, so Florence focuses carefully on the music hopping through the club to lock their conversation out.
Not her business.
There are eyes on her back, Florence thinks, and she turns to look at her usual dance partner. But she seems to have turned late, or perhaps just imagined the tickle of his attention, because Nino’s gaze sits on his napkin, which he plucks and refolds continuously. The man flinches and sucks air in through his teeth. He rotates his left shoulder and Florence can almost hear it click in its socket man.
Stubborn man.
“May I have this dance, Miss Baker?”
Florence is so focused on Nino that the voice beside her makes her jump. She turns her head back to find Vittorio standing hardly a foot from her, his hand outstretched. It’s somewhat of a shock, the man who is essentially her boss’s boss asking her to dance, and she blinks stupidly up at him for a long moment before looking to Elizabeth.
Had she said no? Why on earth would she have said no?
Florence's hand itches to take Vittorio’s, but she refuses to vault into the crowd with another woman's man. Not without permission first.
“Would you mind? It’s just a dance, promise. Just… don’t want to steal your beau.”
Elizabeth doesn't hesitate with her answer, immediately nodding towards the dance floor.
"As long as you don’t steal mine, I won’t steal yours, Miss Baker. Please, do dance with him. I want to see how Mr…” The woman gives Vittorio a once over, her eyes crawling up his body so slowly that even Florence feels like blushing. “…how Mr. Puzo moves on the dance floor.”
Florence beams and takes Vittorio’s hand quickly, but she pauses for just a moment longer to glance back at Nino.
He leans against the table on one elbow and there's a soft, almost remorseful look on his face. He looks so uncharacteristically small, his body wedged tighter in his chair that he usually sits, and Florence chides herself for a moment at the fact she wants to run off and dance when she should perhaps be by his side, propping him up.
But he catches her staring, recognizes the look on her face for what it is, and joins Elizabeth in pointing towards the dance floor.
"Go on. Have fun, Flo."
Florence’s lips spread into a wide, excited smile and she sends him one last look, hoping he can decipher her gratitude as she strides for the elevated stage in the center of the room.
When she reaches it and spins to face Vittorio, she’s faced with the startling reminder that she never expected the don to ever dance casually, certainly not with her, in a sparkling dance hall with all the lights and glitter she could hope to experience in a single moment. Her hands flutter at her side and her mind goes blank for a moment; the song’s tempo picks up and she suddenly can’t remember even the first step to the number. She wonders for a moment if Mr. Puzo is as patient a teacher as Nino had been, but before she can entertain the thought any further, he pulls her forward, leads her right with the sway of his body alone.
"Nino says you like to dance."
"He is… correct, though I'm… quite new to it." She glances back at the man for just a moment, smiling fondly. "Didn't peg you for a dancer though."
Florence's eyes widen as the words slip from her mouth and she gestures wildly. With an amused chuckle, Vittorio spins her before turning in place himself. Florence’s face glows a deep shade of pink and she blows out a lungful of air. Perhaps it’s better to just focus on the steps, if her mouth is truly so intent on disconnecting from her brain for the night. "Not that you aren't capable— Mr. Puzo."
Vittorio squeezes her left hand gently and Florence catches a glimpse of quiet delight in the man’s eye. A second later and it’s gone, his face as smooth as marble; the shift is so sudden she’s almost dizzy.
The music slows around them, just enough to allow her a breath of air. Florence turns in a small circle, enjoying the soft brush of fringe against the back of her knees, and presses her hands flat against Vittorio’s.
It’s different dancing with him than it is with Nino. Enjoyable, of course— it’s incredible, how flat and solid the man’s muscles are when she presses up against him even momentarily. He’s practically a space heater, the warmth of him radiating across her skin in waves. And he’s surprisingly gentle, for such a big man.
But he’s not Nino. Where Vittorio commands a space, fills her line of vision almost by intention alone, Nino fits into place like a puzzle piece, like the room wouldn’t work quite right without him. Vittorio is strong and bold in his steps, leading her around the room with a confidence that is contagious. Nino would step just so, close enough to catch her eye but far enough to make her want to follow, teasing her with the reward of a proud smile or engaging glance so that she’d work for it. His hands are smaller than Vittorio’s his fingers just a touch longer, and there’s a sharpness to his cheeks that is more defined.
A pang resounds through Florence’s chest and she glances back towards the table where Nino and Elizabeth still sit. She’d almost expected them to be watching and when she finds them engaged in deep conversation, Nino leaning forward towards Elizabeth and knocking his fist against his chest, the evening comes back to Florence in a rush.
"I think I owe you an apology, sir. I seem to have made your date… uncomfortable."
The small smile on Vittorio's lips dims to a thin, concerned line. His grip on her hand tightens just slightly and Florence watches as he turns his own face towards Elizabeth. His lips twist together, as if he’s uncertain if he wants to respond or simply remain silent.
"Please understand, Miss Baker, Elizabeth has had a very difficult couple of weeks. A night of… normalcy was sorely needed and yet… is not something she is privy to as of late."
It might just be the most Vittorio Puzo had spoken to her in one go; still, his tone is even quieter than usual and there’s a sense of despair lingering just beneath the surface of his words. She glances back at Elizabeth, wondering how she'd managed to have such an effect on the man. The man has seemed untameable in all the time she’s known him, unapproachable like some jungle cat stalking its territory. She realizes suddenly that he may have simply been protecting what he believed, who he believed, was his. Florence hopes he can find a way to stay with Elizabeth. She’s never known panthers to make good house cats, but if he can find a way to stay, maybe Nino can too.
"I'd like to get to know her, if you'll let me. Try again, I mean. I know my first attempt was..."
A saxophone croons from within the crowd and Florence slides left, as Nino had taught her to do a little while ago. Vittorio's hand follows, just high enough that it doesn't quite rest on her hip; they may be dancing, but the man still seemed to understand the boundaries of holding another man’s girl.
"Your first attempt was appreciated. Keep trying. She's well worth your time."
"I imagine she is, if you're as enamored as you seem."
He pulls back, gives her a smug look that she knows would be an admonishment to most. Instead of balking, she squares her shoulders and puffs out her chest like a bird, grinning proudly.
"You are very forthright, Miss Baker."
"Nino says it's refreshing."
Vittorio’s lips pull to the right, the tiniest hint that she might have amused the man, and Florence beams as he escorts them off the dance floor and back to their table.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Puzo.”
He waves a gloved hand back at her, a quiet, knowing smile affixing itself across his mouth again.
"Miss Baker's not bad, Nino. Quick learner."
Vittorio nods his head respectfully towards his consigliere, then seats himself beside Elizabeth. His fingers graze her elbow and Florence lets the moment pass before scooting forward towards the woman. She extends her hands for a moment, her stomach fluttering with nerves, then draws them back again and presses them flat against her knees.
"I think I might have... confused you earlier. You work tables long enough and you forget first names are a thing. So I'm just going to be blunt-" She clears her throat and straightens, forcing herself to look at Elizabeth directly.
"Do you prefer Elizabeth or Miss Colvin?"
There’s a beat of silence before the woman responds and Florence can feel a surge of panic bursting out of the woman. Elizabeth stares at her, her eyes blown wide; Florence worries she’s blown it again, this time in under a few seconds. She nearly withdraws the question, almost grabs for her half-finished glass of gin.
“Whichever you… you’d…” Elizabeth stutters, her confidence flailing about just as quickly as Florence’s hands.
“Elizabeth.” The warning is firm and unexpected and Florence turns to look at Nino as he speaks, his eyes centered on Elizabeth’s face. It’s more of a command than she’s come to expect from the man and it seems Elizabeth could say the same. She stares at him for just a moment, then swallows, and answers Florence carefully.
“Elizabeth… please? I need a friend who understands what it’s like…” The woman’s head nods but an inch towards Vittorio and Nino as she finally glances up at Florence.
“It’s not your fault, Miss Baker. I just… haven’t had many chances to socialize in an aboveboard way in this city, and I guess I just don’t know how.”
Florence would like to tell her she knows what she means and wonders if she could find the courage to tell Elizabeth just how inexperienced she is with anyone outside of the restaurant and her landlord and, if she can count him by now, Nino. But the woman shifts suddenly, her eyes lighting up even brighter than before and she bounces in her seat as the opening notes of Gershwin pipe into the air.
“Oh! I love this song!”
She’s practically on her feet at the sound of the piano, fidgeting so much she might be vibrating. Vittorio looks delighted from behind and makes eye contact with Florence for just a moment.
She’s well worth your time.
Then he winks and with one quick stride is beside Elizabeth, offering her his hand again.
“May I have this dance, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth stalls, looking all at once delighted and hesitant. She glances between Florence and Vittorio, her words fumbling over one another as she the air if it would really be alright. Florence flutters her hand quickly at the woman in response.
“Elizabeth—” The name feels leagues better than Miss Colvin. She smiles widely and nods towards the floor. “Go ahead. I got my fix. Have some fun.”
Her new friend rises to her feet and slips her hand into Vittorio’s but she bobs back on her heels as if she’s not quite sure. Florence realizes with an amused chuckle that Elizabeth just might be as stubborn as the rest of their party and she beckons towards Nino.
“Go on. I have to talk to him anyway.”
Elizabeth’s eyes dart over to the man and her body goes still. She nods, finally resolute, and turns back for the dance floor.
“Thank you for taking care of him.”
Florence thinks she might have misheard the woman. In her desperate attempt not to coddle him, she feels like she’s been neglecting Nino for most of the night, running off to dance with his boss and shrinking her attention to connect with… whoever Elizabeth is to him.
Something the woman said earlier echoes about in her head and Florence finally turns her focus to the man. He looks so much smaller than usual and there’s a stiffness to his expression that gives away his true discomfort. Florence’s fingers itch to pick open the man’s jacket, to smooth back his collar, and brush her fingertips across the bandages that wind around his shoulder.
Instead, she simply stands and walks slowly towards him. Nino drops his eyes to his drink, already nearly empty, and drains the glass as she settles back down in the chair next to him.
“Why does Elizabeth think she could have stopped you?”
He goes still, then rotates his jaw slowly, considering his answer carefully. He turns his glass slowly, his eyes following the sparkle of light across each carved niche in its surface. Nino watches it, enraptured, and his eyes crawl back to her so slowly that Florence knows the man is avoiding the question.
But she’s used to this, used to sitting in front of a loved one and dragging an interaction out through their teeth. Silence isn’t an obstacle to her, just an inevitable state of existence until she either gives up or they give in. So she keeps her eyes trained on his face, takes her own sip of her own glass, and waits for his reply.
It takes a moment, but after stretching his shoulders with a painful pop, Nino lifts his eyes to hers again and sighs.
“She’s as new to this as you are, Florence. It was a misunderstanding.”
She won’t settle for that, not when Elizabeth was practically begging for forgiveness before.
The night of their first date, she’d hardly slept afterward, running every possibility through her mind. She’d convinced herself nearly immediately that if she were to start a relationship with someone in Nino’s line of work, she would behave, keep her questions limited and her eyes down. It would be difficult, when she wanted every little detail like some campfire story, but the less she knew, the easier it would be.
But it wasn’t. Not when he went missing for a week— not an entirely unheard of occurrence for a man like Nino— only to return with a hole in his arm and a bruised ego. After the initial shock had worn off and she’d torn across town to assure herself he was alive, damaged and in pain, but alive, it had occurred to her how she had been denied any information whatsoever.
Elizabeth knew something. Or she knew enough to feel guilty, at least, where Florence had just been angry and afraid. Misunderstandings were avoidable, if both parties communicated well enough.
“She thought it was her fault.”
“She thinks that a lot lately.”
Florence’s temper flares for a moment, but she stops to swallow it down before it can bubble to the surface and ruin the moment. She is concerned and upset, seeing him laid out and half the person he usually is, and Florence has heard enough hissed disputes between couples at Vesuvio’s that she knows those two emotions would rupture any semblance of straight thinking she could hope for.
“Just… tell me enough to let me worry next time, okay?”
It comes out raspy as fear and a disturbingly large burst of fondness presses up against Florence’s lungs. She realizes with sudden clarity that the possibility of getting to know Nino, sitting with him, speaking with him, dancing and laughing with Nino had at some point beaten out the risk of losing him.
She pales and straightens at the revelation, digs her hands into the silk folds of her dress beneath the table.
The tension in Nino’s face falls away as she does. She opens her mouth to explain, but with a quick glance around them, Nino leans forwards and presses his lips up against her cheek. They’re gone not a moment later, but his hand catches against hers, pulls it loose from her dress, and twines their fingers together.
“As best I can.”
As Vittorio returns to his seat at their table, surprisingly alone, Nino squeezes her hand and drags his thumb across the ridge of her knuckles. The casual openness of his attention, in public no less, feels almost like a promise of transparency.
Vittorio sputters suddenly and Florence glances back at him to discover he’s picked up the wrong drink. The don’s lips twist with surprise and he places the Mary Pickford down carefully onto the table, pushing it away from him like an insult. Florence swallows a smug tease and glances towards the dance floor for the real owner of the drink. Elizabeth twirls about with a rather burly man, one she doesn’t recognize, but there’s a smile on her face. Satisfied with her whereabouts, Florence turns back to Nino as a waiter replaces his empty glass with another full one, and her eyebrows lift just slightly.
It’s his third one, and they’d hardly been there an hour. Concern reignites in the pit of Florence’s stomach.
Nino mutters a thank you as the waiter vanishes again, but as he reaches for his drink, Florence leans forward quickly and plucks it from the table first. She takes a sip— scotch, god, what was she thinking— and nearly regrets it as the alcohol lights up her throat and burns in her belly.
Florence is well aware of the consequences that calling a man out in public can receive, she remembers Mrs. Morris’s lessons and to a lesser degree, her own parent’s actions, well enough to know it’s not proper. So despite the harsh effect the drink seems to have on her senses, the move seemed worth the silent reminder to him that she’s watching, that she knows that three drinks an hour is not his usual.
She clears her throat, blinking and pinching her nose as the afterburn of the scotch slowly fades away. Her voice is soft when she speaks, hardly a whisper.
"How's your shoulder?"
Nino blinks back at her for a moment, a look of frustration momentarily crossing his face before it melts into muted appreciation. He leans back in his chair enough to look at Florence, cocking his head to the side with an expression on his face she can’t quite place.
"Bit of a pinch. I'm fine, Flo."
She gives him a considering look, then nods and drags her fingers softly down his back.
“Being shot hurts. I’ve been hit five times myself. This is his first,”
Vittorio’s voice is quiet, unexpected, and she turns to him, her eyes troubled. His eyes seem darker than usual, a deeper black than she can recall on the man. He glances at Nino as the man takes a long swallow of his scotch, then back at Florence.
“Go a bit easy on him. He didn’t want to cancel on you tonight, wanted to see you too much. I’ll drive you both home.”
Florence’s heart rockets into her throat at the admission, though Vittorio moves on quickly, as if it’s not an incredibly touching, unexpected honor that an injured man has stalled his recovery just to see her.
Florence looks back at Nino, considers for just a moment sweeping him off to the coat room and locking the door tight. She won’t— her boy has been struggling enough with simple movement that she knows it would be an incredibly poor idea. But the urge stays, if only to show him her appreciation.
She’d wanted to see him too, even if she’d never wanted it like this.
Her hand slows at the base of Nino’s spine; as it does, she feels an arm sluggishly wrap itself around her waist. Nino pulls her closer, his eyes still on his glass, and her knees bump up against his as her chair drags across the carpet. His voice rumbles softly, low but close enough that she can feel it in her chest. She’s not really sure if it’s even a sentence, what he says, more a collection of happy syllables, but she smiles nonetheless. It’s comfortable in the crook of his arm, like when Elizabeth and Vittorio—
"You look good together, you know." Her eyes meet Vittorio's and she nods towards the crowd of dancing couples. "You and Elizabeth."
The man smiles softly to himself, his hands turning something in his pocket and he glances shyly— shyly, of all things, Vittorio Puzo- back at Florence. “She’s…everything to me. I’m going to ask her to marry me on Sunday.”
A soft gasp escapes Florence's lips and she takes a beat to make sense of the words. It's not something she'd ever expected to come out of the man's mouth. Florence presses her hands over her mouth, then claps them down on the tablecloth again.
"Congratulations, Mr. Puzo."
There’s a scuffle, at the edge of her vision, and still beaming, Florence glances towards the dance floor. Her smile drops instantly however as she spots Elizabeth squirming desperately away from the man she’d been dancing with, who has one hand locked around her wrist, and the other clamped firmly up against her backside.
"Sir."
Florence’s lungs slam closed and she nods towards the floor.
Vittorio bolts to his feet and strides across the room towards Elizabeth. Without wasting a moment, Florence darts through the crowd behind him, her voice sharp and pitched as she pushes her way through. It’s not difficult with the way Vittorio looms above them all, his body tense like a wound coil.
“—please stop.” There’s fear sitting just beneath Elizabeth’s request and Vittorio seems to respond to it viscerally. He sweeps one hand beneath Elizabeth’s right arm and pulls sharply. The stranger’s grip on her wrists comes loose and Elizabeth stumbles backward, her feet catching on the hem of her skirt. Florence dives forward and opens her arms to catch the woman before she lands; she’s lighter than she expected, thin and so small.
Florence’s eyes flick back to the man Elizabeth had many dancing with and she has to swallow a bark of a threat. Vittorio towers over them both, having stepped between her, Elizabeth, and the stranger immediately upon his date’s withdrawal.
Elizabeth’s squat, pouty assailant wrinkles underneath Vittorio’s unmoving stare; the crowd around them dissipates quickly, leaving them alone on the dance floor. For a dark moment, she wonders if they’d turn a blind eye if she were to defend Elizabeth’s honor and take a swing at the man’s face.
“Miss Baker, take her back.”
Vittorio’s curt tone cuts through Florence’s focus on the man and she takes a slow breath, lowering her ankles from where they’d risen, a position she doesn’t remember taking. It’s somewhat difficult, to reel her aggression back in without any real release, but Elizabeth is nearly shaking beside her. She’s more important and Florence is reluctant to ignore an order from Vittorio Puzo.
If he wants to handle it himself, she won’t argue. The man has a reputation to uphold and a stranger moving on a mafia don’s territory required a fast and heavy response. Florence knows it’s a response she and Elizabeth probably don't want to see.
Carefully circling around to look at Elizabeth, she brushes her hand underneath the woman's wrist and cocks her head towards the restrooms.
"Let's go powder our noses. Come on."
Florence pauses by her table to grab her purse, purposely looking away from the crowd of staring patrons. Nino nods toward her, shooting a look of concern towards Elizabeth, then immediately turns his gaze back towards the dance floor. His right hand lingers in his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapped around what looks to be the grip of a gun, and Florence quickly vacates the room with Elizabeth in tow.
They’d handle it. Nino and Vittorio would handle it.
“No more blood. No more. No more.”
It’s concerning, listening to Elizabeth murmur like that, her voice quivering. Florence presses the restroom door open and ushers her companion in behind her.
“It’s my fault. It is.”
The claim bothers her enough that Florence opens her mouth to argue, but Elizabeth is insistent. She shakes her head hurriedly, raising her hands to stop Florence’s objection, and letting out a long, shaky breath.
“No. It is. I was a reporter. Was. I uncovered something, and Vittorio had saved my life twice before. So I went to him for help.” Her words confirm Florence’s earlier suspicion, the recognition of her name in the newspaper, and each tiny explanation slowly fills in some of the holes in the woman’s story.
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to say,” she continues, “—but that man— he recognized me from somewhere I had to go, and he knew the man I was forced to marry, and that’s why he thought he could do that to me.”
She wants to tell Elizabeth that no can do that to her, not without her permission, but she knows feeding her lies won’t help now. From the sound of it, Elizabeth had seen far more of Vittorio and Nino’s world than she had, and now is not the time to offer her sympathies.
Undeterred by her silence, Elizabeth pulls her powder from her purse and lightly dusts her face with the puff.
“I hope no harm comes to you, Florence, but I also hope you don’t leave. These men don’t give their hearts easily. They don’t want to love, so when they do, that might be the only thing that really scares them.”
The statement sent a tremble down Florence’s spine and for a moment, she wants to run. Who did Nino think she was to trust her with that kind of emotional connection, to assume that she deserved the attention of someone so unlikely to notice her at all?
Elizabeth drops her powder back into her purse, and cradles something small in her hand before continuing.
“—and they do. Both of them.”
The nerves in Florence’s stomach subside just a little at the woman’s words and she looks down at her purse, zips it closed carefully.
She supposed they did, that Nino could genuinely love her, beyond just a daydream or some false hope she might stumble upon at night. The thought is enough to keep her where she is, keep her feet tied to the floor rather than scrambling for the door.
Florence sighs, takes one last look in the mirror, then pats Elizabeth’s hand softly.
“Let’s go. You can finish your drink.”
*
She’s right. Nino, Vittorio, and the man from before are nowhere in sight, and the floor is humming with people again, though a few couples still look wary to approach it.
There’s not much left to Elizabeth’s drink when they sit down at the table again. It’s mostly water and though the waiter pauses at their side to offer her another one, she declines. Florence strongly considers ordering another drink of her own, but eventually settles on the idea that she should be as sober as possible, just in case Elizabeth needed backup or her date needed a helping hand back home.
Nino appears shortly afterward, his suit carefully pressed as if he had just started the evening over and not returned from what could very well have been a violent encounter. Florence finds it both impressive and frightening, that he has such a solid grip on his separate identities.
He pays quickly and quietly, muttering a few words to the waiter and slipping him a larger roll of cash than Florence thinks might be appropriate. Then he turns, offers her a hand up with just a glance towards her and Elizabeth, and escorts them both outside.
Vittorio waits outside, holding a lit cigarette to his lips. They drive home in silence and Florence convinces herself that the faint stench of blood is just part of her imagination.