Chapter 8 - Breakfast in Dorchester
Two months later, the rain was falling again—not the violent November collapse, but a gentle, steady spring drizzle that made the city look washed and clean.
Inside the small diner in Dorchester, the vinyl booths were spotless, the fluorescent lights hummed cheerfully overhead, and the smell of fresh hash browns and sizzling eggs filled the air.
At the back booth, beside the radiator, three people sat together.
Daniel was busy constructing an intricate, highly unstable tower out of paper napkins and silverware while his mother laughed, trying to rescue a stray fork before the tower collapsed.
Across from them sat Dante, wearing a simple navy pullover, no overcoat, no gun, and no shadows in his eyes.
The short-order cook walked over with a fresh mug of coffee and set a small cup of hot cocoa with actual powdered chocolate on top right in front of Daniel.
“Is it the kind with the powder?” Daniel asked, looking up with bright, expectant eyes.
“The very best kind, kid,” the cook smiled, patting Daniel’s head before walking back toward the kitchen.
Dante reached across the table, his hand finding Mara’s beneath the edge of the vinyl booth, their fingers intertwining with absolute, quiet certainty.
Mara looked around the diner—at the warm light, at her son laughing over his cocoa, at the man who had walked out of the dark harbor and into her life by simply asking if he could sit down.
May you like
She smiled, leaning her head against Dante’s shoulder as the rain tapped softly against the glass outside.
They weren't hiding anymore. They were just home.
