The next morning, Dominic woke up early and brought back bagels and pastries from a well-known bakery in Midtown. The kind of place where made men took their families on Sunday mornings, where the owner knew which orders went to which houses and never asked questions.
Just as I was about to open the bag with chocolate croissants, he slapped my hand away.
"You like peanut butter bagels, right? I got one just for you."
I froze for a second before realizing. The chocolate croissants weren't for me. They were for his aide. For Penelope Vitale.
I couldn't hold back anymore. "We've been together for seven years, and you still don't know I'm allergic to peanuts?"
His expression darkened, and he stood abruptly, snapping, "Stop making a fuss. Eat or don't. I don't care."
The Don's voice. The one that ended conversations in sit-downs, that made capos twice his age look at the floor. He used it on me the way he used it on everyone. As if I were just another person in the room who needed to stop talking.
As he prepared to leave, I walked into the bedroom and came back with a bag.
"When you see Penelope later, do me a favor and return this to her."