Worst Fears Realized

he’s not just a soldier, but he’s not a capo, either, though the word is, he might be one of these days, if somebody doesn’t pop him.”
    “Is he dangerous?”
    “Who knows? He might call a hit on you, if he thought he could get away with it. In my judgment, he wouldn’t have the guts to do the job himself.”
    “He showed me his gun, and I showed him mine.”
    Dino laughed. “That’ll keep him off the block, anyway. Guys like Donato aren’t used to dealing withpeople who are as well armed as they are. You ought to be grateful to the guy, Stone; he’s a buffer between you and Dolce. As long as he’s alive, she can’t do anything permanent.”
    “What makes you think she’d want to do anything permanent with me?” Stone asked.
    “I don’t know, Stone. Eduardo apparently thinks highly of you, and he doesn’t have a history of admiring Dolce’s boyfriends.”
    “And where are you getting this?”
    “From Mary Ann, where else?”
    “Dino, you’re making way too much of all this.”
    “Just make sure you don’t shoot Donato; it wouldn’t be in your best interests.”
    “Goodbye, Dino,” Stone said, and hung up. A moment later, the front door buzzed. Stone picked up the phone. “Yes?”
    “Your dinner has arrived,” Dolce said.

58
    DOLCE WALKED IN CARRYING TWO LARGEbags filled with groceries. She pecked him on the lips, handed him the bags, then walked around the living room, assessing the place. “This is nice,” she said, finally. “A little gloomy, maybe; could use some color, but it has good bones.”
    “Let me show you the kitchen,” Stone said, leading the way.
    She liked the kitchen better. “A girl could do good work here,” she said. “You got all the right appliances; how’d you know about that?”
    “I cook a little,” Stone replied, setting down the groceries. “Can I get you a drink?”
    “A little Strega, maybe.”
    “Ah, I don’t have any Strega, I’m afraid.”
    “Stone, you’re seeing an Italian girl, now; stock up.”
    “I do have some very good olive oil.”

    “Never drink it; how about a good single-malt scotch? Is that whitebread enough for you?”
    “I’ve got a Laphroaig,” Stone said, looking through the kitchen liquor cabinet, “or a Glenlivet, or a Dalwhinney.”
    “The Laphroaig, please; no ice, just a little cold water.”
    Stone did as she asked.
    She sipped the drink, then came into his arms. “Very good,” she said, kissing him. “When do I see the bedroom?”
    “First food, then love,” Stone said, wondering why he had said “love” instead of “sex.”
    “Fair enough,” she said, grabbing an apron from a hook and starting to unpack groceries. “By the way, you haven’t heard anything from a Johnny Donato, have you?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “He’s been bothering me, but I think he’s too smart to bother you. He’s my husband.”
    “He bothered me this afternoon,” Stone said. “He came to the house.”
    Dolce closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She turned and looked at Stone, contrite. “I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again,” she said.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Stone said. “I think I scared him off with talk of the cops and the feds. I think he probably feels that he’s out of his depth.”
    Dolce put some water on to boil and began chopping garlic. “Johnny has always been out of his depth,” she said, “on this side of the East River. He’s a Brooklyn boy, and he should never leave.”

    “He is handsome,” Stone said. “I can see how your ad might have been turned at nineteen.”
    “Trouble is, Johnny isstill nineteen.” She began chopping prosciutto. “He does crazy things, then wants to be forgiven. He’s kind of a split personality—one moment, a sweet little boy, the next, a screaming maniac.”
    “How long did you actually live with him?”
    “Less than a month. On our last day together, I hit him in the head with a cast-iron skillet and left him on the kitchen floor for dead. He had a harder head than I thought.”
    “Remind me never to make you angry,” Stone said.
    Dolce looked at him sweetly. “Never make me angry,” she said. “Consider yourself reminded.”
    Stone opened a bottle of white wine and poured himself a glass, sniffing it first.
    “Can I try it?” she asked.
    He handed her the glass.
    She swirled it, sniffed it, tasted it. “It’s lovely; is it Italian?”
    “It’s a Mondavi Reserve Chardonnay ’94. Not everything good is