A/N: This Mafia AU has been percolating in my mind for a long while now. So, here we are! I hope you enjoy. A couple housekeeping things:
1) I love American mob media, so be on the lookout for nods to movies and shows within this story. 2) This story is primarily meant to be a fun exercise in "what if Jane and Maura were actually bad?" - engage with it as such. 3) With that said, remember that this Maura is Maura Doyle, not Maura Isles. She'll be different. But also, hopefully the most important elements are the same and will shine through.
Jane Rizzoli wakes up to a whole night's worth of sweat down her back, her tank top pasted to her body and pushed halfway up her torso. As she sits, squinting against the light pouring into her tiny room, the twin bed creaks under her. Her thighs stick to the simple gray sheet, and she rises before she is ready, just because she can no longer stand the moisture.
This means it is time to start the day.
She wiggles her toes on the cracked and fading tiles of the floor, and glances over at the alarm clock on her very flimsy IKEA nightstand: it reads 7:30. It doesn't go off because she never sets it; she sleeps like shit and is always up before she needs to be. But, the sight of the clock gives her comfort because it's the exact model of the one sitting in her apartment in Boston. Home. She hadn't had the time or capability to take anything with her when she left, not even something small, but she had seen this clock a couple months ago during a visit to the open air market a few streets away and knew that she had to have it.
She finishes reminiscing because she has to: if she doesn't chunk her activities, plan them, execute them, weave them into larger plans, her brain scatters and makes it hard to concentrate on any one thing at a time. So, the thoughts-of-the-North-End portion of the morning is done, and she thinks of what is usually next. And, what is usually next is Leonardo and his fantastic espresso.
So, with no shame, she runs a hand through her long, tangled, curly black hair, and steps out into the main area of the apartment where Leonardo works the stove. "Bongiornu, Leo," she says, using her voice for the first time since last night. It's scratchy, liquid, and dark.
Leo turns from the coffee, the stove on medium heat, and smiles widely. "Good morning, Jane," he says, in Sicilian-accented English. He wears an Ed Hardy shirt with a black panther head over the chest, jeans with studs on the back pockets, and black boots. His black Italian hair is artfully mussed, and he doesn't bat an eye at Jane emerging in her tank top and boyshorts.
"English today, huh?" she replies in her easy-breezy Bostonian. Looking at the two of them, no one could mistake their Greek features, nor their Roman hair, nor their Arab skin nor Norman noses. They belong here, in Messina. They are from here. Leonardo's family never left, Jane's did almost eighty years prior, but the two of them fit the part of Southern Italian troublemaker exactly.
"Every day, Jane," Leo quips. He motions for her to sit at the table and then pulls out two cups for the both of them. "How you expect me to learn if I never practice?" he says, pouring.
"That's fine. It's really the only time I get to hear the sounds of home anyway," Jane responds. The smell of the coffee closes Jane's eyes, opens her nostrils, and constricts around her heart. She misses her mother, who makes espresso just like this. When she opens her eyes again, she sees the port outside their kitchen window, and if she squints, she can imagine it as the waterfront just outside Langone Park. Even then, it's not quite right, and she thinks these docks look more like Paddy's in South Boston. Still, she'd take that over the three more months she's got here.
"That's good. Now tell me about your plans. Chi fai oggi, eh?" Leonardo sharpens his s, and wields his other consonants with precision. At home, Jane would interpret it as a sign of gayness. Here, it's a sign of speaking an Italian language - his gayness manifests itself in other ways. They have that in common: physical trademarks of their queerness that won't be denied, tamped down.
Jane gives him one of her own, the way she sits with her knees swung wide apart, feet planted firmly on the floor, forearms crossed on the table. And they can be with each other like this, when it is just the two of them. They move more freely, speaking affirmations to each other with wrist flicks and slumping posture instead of with words. "Cena, ccu… wait a minute. You can't switch it up on me before I've had caffeine. English only, right? I got a dinner with Don Antoninu tonight. Kind of an important one."
"Ah," Leo reacts, rapt with interest, and he sits down with their two cups of espresso. His is nearly white with cream, but he knows that Jane takes hers black, one sugar. "What makes it important then?"
"The fact that we're gonna be discussin' the car business," Jane answers, still unused to speaking about her job so openly, even though Leo is a known associate and directly involved with the… car trade. "And that it'll be my first contact with someone from Boston since April. Honestly, I'm pretty excited about that."
"Who?" Leo presses as he lights a cigarette.
At 23, Jane has quit smoking for about three years. To her, it smells divine and tastes repulsive. Still, her brain tells her that she wants one. She resists it. "I don't even know. They're from the hub and that's what counts. But, if I had to guess, an Irish guy. They're the ones who run the docks and funnel the uh, the product to us. So it'd be in their best interest to be present for any upcoming price negotiations."
Leo takes a long, indulgent drag, then puffs it out of his nose. At 19, he still thinks that cigarettes are god's gift to man. "Hmm. You think one of… Paddy's men," he confirms.
Jane lets her latest sip tumble down her throat and it awakens her just a bit more. She rubs her large hand over her cheek, willing more bloodflow to it. "Yeah, Paddy Doyle," she chuckles. Leo is still learning the ins and outs of that thing of theirs on the east coast of the United States, but he knows the players pretty well. "A real bad motherfucker. So I'm gonna go play nice, listen to them talk about business back home, and enjoy some food. But really, I'm there to be seen and not heard since I am supposed to be laying very low."
"I like this word, 'motherfucker,'" Leo chews it, mulls it around his mouth like some new, forbidden fruit. "I will start using it."
"Be my guest," Jane says. She downs the rest of her coffee and stands up, already on her way back to her tiny room. "Shower free? I got a few things to do before tonight."
"Yes, you know I am a morning person," Leo calls out to Jane's back. He takes his own last sip and then picks the Beretta up from the table, stuffing into his jeans just above his ass. He straightens his t-shirt so that the gun can't be seen, and rinses their dishes in the sink.
The Sicilian sun bursts through the open windows of their place, as if beckoning the both of them outward: to be in it, to embrace it.
Jane looks down at her shiny black oxfords and taps them against the ornate stone tilework of the restaurant in Hotel Vittoria - Don Antoninu's favorite spot. One, to be fair, that he owns. So, it makes sense that they keep nosy guests on the other side of the dining room, and that they look the other way when he brings work to their tables. She rolls her shoulders under her flowy, white silk button up, stuffs her hands into the pockets of her black skinny trousers, the European style of the day, and passes through Vittoria's baroque-style arch. It leads to a table where Don Antoninu's men are just starting to settle.
Mariu, his son, sees her, and raises his glass to call her over. They are nearly the same age, Mariu is 25, and he considers Jane his personal guest while she stays in Messina. He mirrors her, in his own white shirt and black pants, but he wears a suit jacket to officialize him. Sometimes Don Antoninu comes to these meetings, sometimes he does not. When he skips out, he leaves the facilitation in Mariu's hands.
Jane smiles back at him and walks over. Tonight, she knows, is too consequential. Americans will be here, and Don Antoninu needs to keep his relationship with them strong to keep his cocaine cheap. It helps that Paddy and Antoninu run the docks on their respective sides, cutting down shipment time and law enforcement interference to basically nothing. She takes a glass of grappa from Mariu, tulip shaped and about a third of the way full, and sips just enough to settle into it. She swirls the remaining contents at her side, adamant to remain sober during the entirety of dinner.
She takes a seat next to Michele Chiesi, a middle-aged soldier with slicked-back gray hair and a very fancy gold watch, and he leans in to kiss her cheek. She accepts it and pats his knee. "Joca lu Palermu contru lu Catania dumani, huh?" she says to him. Palermo plays Catania tomorrow, huh?
He smirks because even though he loves soccer, he knows Jane hates it. He likes her so much because she makes an attempt anyway. And her favorite sport, baseball, has barely any foothold in their country. "Certu," he confirms, "but I know you won't watch." His thick accent makes him seem less dangerous, and Jane does him the courtesy of responding to his effort in English.
"Nah, I won't. But I'll catch the highlights and let you talk to me all about it," she tells him. They share a short laugh. Other guests start to filter in, people that Jane knows or has met previously, and gradually the table begins to fill.
Then Leo walks in, in his own ill-fitting suit, which surprises Jane, because associates don't often come to dinners of this magnitude. He waves at her, his face stretched into a smile so wide it looks painful. He stops in the archway, on the top of the step that leads into the dining room with its frescoes of the bay on the walls, and later, Jane realizes the source of his happiness - he has been tasked with ushering in the guest of honor.
At first, however, she knows nothing but the rush of blood between her ears, to her face, down her spine: she perceives nothing but the young woman behind Leo, in sleeveless black Prada and Zanotti heels. She smells nothing but the french perfume that gives this girl away as distinctly not-Italian. She sees nothing but wavy brown-blonde hair, impeccably styled, and green eyes - Irish green eyes that Jane recognizes. Well, she recognizes their lineage: they're Colin Doyle's eyes, Paddy's son's eyes, and that must mean that she is staring back at Paddy's oldest, his daughter. Maura Doyle. Jane suddenly wants nothing but the grappa in front of her, to steady herself. Well, that isn't entirely true. She wants a lot more than that, but again, she chunks. Start with liquid courage first. Take things step by step.
The rest of her drink disappears as she throws her head back, and then she smiles confidently in Maura's direction, sobriety be damned. She nods her head to the seat to her left, miraculously open.
Maura fiddles with the straps of her purse, down in front of her hips, and for a moment Jane thinks Maura is nervous, but when Maura strides towards her with no hitch or second-guessing, Jane questions her assumption. She'd be able to peg Doyle confidence anywhere, really, whether it was running the streets of Southie or, as fate would have it, commanding a hotel restaurant in Messina, Sicily. When Maura sits, all prim and proper right next to her, Jane turns, abandons all plans for the head of the table and the rest of the night. She lets her impulses guide her, something she does rarely.
"Bonasira," says Maura, and she seems happy to have snagged a seat next to one of the few women in the room. Relieved even.
"Bonasira," Jane replies, with a nod of her head. "How ya doin' tonight?"
Maura sighs audibly, and she can't help the tiny, breathless laugh that escapes before she speaks again. "I cannot tell you how good it is to hear you speak right now," she confesses to Jane. "I've only been here a week and I didn't anticipate missing Boston so much."
Jane chuckles, too. "Oh no, I know exactly how it feels. I been here three months without so much as one person callin' me kid," she says. "And Dunkie's ain't a thing here. You believe that? I'd kill for a lahge regulah right now."
Maura's laugh gets louder, and she shakes her head. "Now I know you're joking, because nothing compares to Italian coffee. But thank you for the taste of home, I appreciate it."
Jane blushes when Maura says taste. It exposes her perfect, pretty teeth, and it draws Jane's gaze right to her perfect, pretty, pink lips, just ever-so-slightly glossed. "You're welcome," Jane replies. "You look beautiful. I half-expected to see Sean's ugly mug here. Why's Paddy got you comin' all the way out here to do his dirty work?"
"Thank you," Maura bows her head to the compliment, and then pulls a discreet hook out of her bag for the table, so that she can hang it there. Jane looks at it, confused and amused the same, and Maura explains. "Bacteria. On the floor. It really is the most unsanitary part of a restaurant… bacilllus, micrococcus…"
"Ok, ok I got it. Restaurant floors are gross. I'm not judgin'," Jane puts a hand on Maura's wrist to calm her. It's their first skin to skin contact. Jane gulps when she realizes.
"Right. Well, I just like to be safe," Maura says. "Infection likely wouldn't occur, but one can never be too careful."
"You a doctor or somethin'?" Jane asks, just as bread and wine is brought to the table.
"Why do you ask that?"
"You talk like one."
"Well, actually, that's why I'm really here. I'm currently in the middle of a cardiothoracic surgery residency, and I'm in town for a month-long rotation with Dr. Bocelli, at the University of Messina. I did this as a favor to my father. The less money he spends to send a soldier here, the less chance he has of making himself conspicuous. So, you get me tonight."
Jane nods. Chatter begins around them, but as Don Antoninu has not yet arrived, she ignores it. "I see. Aren't you a little young to be in residency already?"
Maura's eyes dance under the glass chandelier above them. The soft light makes them golden. "You know about residency timelines? Well, I graduated high school when I was fifteen. Undergrad at BCU when I was eighteen. So I'm 23 and right on track."
"Impressive," says Jane after a whistle. "Well, I'm happy you're here. Like I said. Sean is definitely not as visually appealing."
Maura pictures which one must be Sean in her father's ranks, and agrees by wrinkling her nose. "And what is your name?"
Jane blushes for another reason now: namely, how could she be so stupid as to forget to introduce herself? "Uh, Jane. Rizzoli. You pegged that I was from Boston within the first few seconds of knowin' me, but, uh, I'm specifically from the North End."
"Oh really?" Maura says, "whereabouts?"
"Grew up right on Hanover Street," Jane answers.
"Ah," Maura pauses and looks far off, as if traveling an entire map of Boston's Italian neighborhood in her head. "Close to the waterfront. You must run for the DiVincenzo brothers."
"Yeah," Jane says. "Kinda cool that you can do that. I'd kill to have Boston all up here." She points to her temple.
"Eidetic memory," Maura says. "From my mother."
"Mrs. Doyle, she's a doctor, too, right?" asks Jane.
"Yes. an obstetrician." Maura looks away for another reason now, and Jane detects hints of sadness in the subtle downturn of her lips. Then it passes and Maura leans on her elbows, too, inching closer to Jane. "And why are you here, Jane? My father and the DiVincenzos seem to have pretty open communication; did we really need two Americans at the table?"
Jane rips and dips her bread, mostly to buy herself thinking time. Maura watches the trickle of red wine sinuate to Jane's chin, and Jane pulls the napkin from her lap to dab at her mouth. She wonders how much she should say, wonders if she'll be able to stop telling Maura things once she starts. "Your uh, your dad didn't tell you? Why I'm in Messina?"
"Why would he?" Maura asks, confused.
"You remember when someone started… lining their pockets from his portion of this thing we got goin'?" Jane prods.
"Yes… that person was also being indiscreet," Maura supplies. It is the Irish code for someone talking to federal law enforcement behind the back of the gang. "And he went into witness protection."
Jane clears her throat. "That's… the story," she says pointedly.
"He didn't?"
"Your dad asked the DiVincenzos for help," Jane explains. "And since I work for the DiVincenzos, I…"
"You helped," Maura finishes. She straightens her back, folds her hands in her lap. She appraises Jane while she crosses her legs and licks her lips. And Jane knows exactly what that means, what Maura feels. And she is glad, because she is feeling the same thing in response to Maura's response. She had expected awkwardness, indignance, maybe even a little fear from Paddy Doyle's very erudite daughter. Arousal had not been on the list. Jane catalogues it.
"Yeah, I helped," Jane says. "And now I'm helpin' out here until things die down a little back home."
Before either can continue their conversation, however, Don Antoninu, a hefty, brown-skinned Sicilian man in a gray suit takes his place at the head of the table. He greets his guests, and then tells them to eat. As always, dinner takes precedence over business. They need full bellies before they can plot the expansion of their empire.
So, both Jane and Maura order, and fall into an easy back-and-forth as they eat. The people around them eat, too, and soon, Don Antoninu's son, Mariu, clinks his glass. He thanks them for coming, especially Maura, all the way from Boston to ensure their financial success. She nods to him demurely, as though she's been in a hundred of these high society functions. Even in another culture, she knows exactly what to do.
Jane likes this.
Don Antoninu thanks his son, and then the work-talk begins. He runs through the enterprises that his family controls on the island, and eventually makes his way to the car ring he runs with Boston's very own Paddy Doyle and Tom and Mario DiVincenzo. "Tommaso gia vinniu a machina a nautra pirsuna," he says of Tom, and a Mercedes truck in question.
Jane leans over to Maura's ear. "He says that Tom already sold that car to someone else," she translates.
"Oh, I know," Maura replies, "and he says that he is willing to give each American family a twenty percent cut. My father would like this." She nods to Mariu as Don Antoninu speaks, and he nods back to her.
"You know?" Jane asks, hung up on the first part, skeptical, "how do you know?"
Maura had gone back to her plate, and now waits to finish her bite before answering. Jane is annoyed, she can tell. What she wants to know is why. She suspects Jane is annoyed at not having known about this sooner - but how could she, if it's the first time they've met? She also wonders if Jane is upset that she can barely control the excitement response running across her Sicilian features. Maura smirks smugly. She puts her fork down and leans in again. "I learned Sicilian for this trip."
"You learned… you're somethin' else, you know that? You learned a whole new language for a month-long trip? How long did that take?" Jane sputters through her sip of red wine.
"Well, Dr. Bocelli doesn't speak English, Jane," Maura responds. "And not long."
"Not long?"
"Not long," Maura reiterates. "Maybe a month or two?"
Jane feels herself drawn forward, and she has no desire to resist. She drums her fingers against the tabletop in a futile attempt to stifle her nervous energy. "Oh yeah?" she says, her voice so deep as to be for Maura's ears only, "Tell me somethin' then."
"Ti vogghiu…" Maura chokes out, her lips pressing against Jane's temple in a barrage of kisses, "tantu tantu beni." I love you, so so much. Her declaration ends in a whine, her words whispered and then sharply yipped because Jane stands between her legs. Jane's fingers are inside of her and they're slipping just before they curl so deeply back in and god, Maura can hear it. Can hear them, because she's got her hand down the front of Jane's slacks and she's sitting on the kitchen counter of their Salem Street home, her own pants thrown over her shoulder somewhere. And when Maura finds Jane's eyes, Jane looks just as ravenous as she feels. Just as undone.
Jane chuckles hoarsely, and lays her head on Maura's shoulder when Maura wraps her unoccupied arm around Jane's back. "Chi cc'è?" Jane asks, though she doesn't want to break the spell they're in because Maura's body pulls her fingers forward like a tight, wet vice and Maura's hand plays an orgasmic tune between her hips. What's wrong?
"Nun cc'è nenti," Maura answers, nothing. "I just love you. Oh god, Jane."
"Even after all this time?" Jane teases. Maura cuts her down with a rapid and forceful round of circles, just on the right spot, and her knees buckle. "Christ."
"Especially after all this time," Maura says in a particularly sappy reply. She is not often prone to the declarations she's giving now, but Jane is just so goddamn talented. Maura's skin flushes and flares with heat, and she knows she's close. "Don't stop, please."
"Shit," Jane croaks. Maura has just pulled her closer and the corresponding feeling is magical – their embrace is total, with Maura's hair falling forward and around their faces, their bodies touching even through clothes. Jane crosses her eyes in climax, still nestled on the designer cardigan that Maura is wearing. As soon as Jane comes, Maura wraps both arms around her shoulders, and their bouncing, sucking, licking, turns frenzied on their quest for Maura's release.
Soon enough, they find it. Jane chases it, coaxes it, then draws it out. Her free hand grips Maura's bare hip and snakes up under Maura's top until she finds the clasp of her bra, grabbing it because Maura is moaning in her ear and Jane thinks she might come again if she doesn't anchor herself with it.
"Oh, fuck," Maura says, drawing out the fuck like she wants no confusion as to what they are doing at 1:30 PM on a Friday afternoon, alone in their palatial home. It rings out in the kitchen, then travels to the hall, and probably through their front door, too, with how loud it is.
Jane hears it, and it's the perfect soundtrack to the contractions around her fingers just before she pulls out. When they are finally apart, a specific, fleeting melancholy enters her heart, the same as every time their lovemaking ends. She slumps forward, face buried in the fabric on Maura's sternum. Hands cradle her head and she hums in satisfaction. "Let's go upstairs."
Maura pulls Jane away from her chest and raises one eyebrow. "Upstairs? We just finished."
"But we're not naked," Jane pouts between Maura's palms. "I wanna be naked with you."
Maura rolls her Irish eyes. "I'm naked in all the ways that count."
They both look down at her bare lower half. There are heels just beside Jane's feet on the kitchen tile, and a pair of underwear hanging from the polished chrome Kohler faucet, not to mention the Givenchy slacks that had parachuted somewhere past the colossal island they currently inhabit. Jane tries to pick Maura up, tries to wrap Maura's legs around her waist, intent on a romantic transfer from granite waterfall countertops to a plush, king-sized bed in their inner sanctum. And Maura does slip her legs into place, but only to hold Jane there, keep her from moving. Jane looks up and meets a stern gaze just inches from her own. "Again, I ask, chi cc'è?" she quips, and lifts with her arms again. Maura stays put. "Maura."
"No. I'm already late for my appointment at the salon, which means you have to pick up the kids," Maura says sternly. She pats Jane's cheek affectionately, however.
Jane whines. "Ah, c'mon. I got the Desiderio meeting at four!" she reasons. When Maura's eyes harden from mischief into annoyance, and when Maura's legs drop from Jane's waist to her sides, she sighs.
"Be a parent, please," is all that Maura says. Jane is a parent, a pretty good one. She just needs periodic reminders.
"A'right a'right," Jane concedes. She steps back and lets Maura dismount the island. "I'll pick up a ricotta pie on my way back." She offers the olive branch of Maura's favorite dessert, the r trilled and the c softened almost to a g just to make the idea extra-Sicilian and therefore extra-enticing.
The only response she gets is a tiptoe kiss, because her chunky heeled black boots make her six inches taller than barefoot Maura. Jane hooks her finger through the lacy black hipsters on the sink and hands them to her wife, who takes them and the rest of the clothes to the staircase. Jane watches, stares at Maura's backside while she moves through the kitchen, then the dining area, and the foyer.
Maura turns back, runs her hand through her long, wavy hair, and nods to Jane's open fly. "You should close that. And get a move on if you don't want to be stuck in the pick-up line for an hour. St. Christopher's is a zoo at dismissal."
Jane had obeyed. She had snatched her blazer from where she had thrown it in haste when she stopped home for a bite to eat, stuffed her white button up in her gray slacks, and peeled out of her parking space. She'd taken Prince down to Hanover and ended up on Cross street, in the pick-up loop, where she sits now. The Range Rover blasts her face with cold air because she had hustled to get down here, and the Boston sun is always a little hotter in the early afternoon, even during fall time.
She looks on at the crowd of students, having just let out at 2:05, and searches for her daughter. When Jane finds her, tasteful highlights in her brown hair, with brown eyes and tan skin just like Jane's, and with a uniform skirt just shorter than the other girls', she makes a mental note to ask Maura if it's allowed. She envisions exactly how Maura will reply, too: with a look and a "do you really want to know? Think about who you are and if the school thinks it's worth it to punish her for it." Jane knows too, that when Maura says this, she won't really care because she'll be too busy wondering how the two of them made something, someone, so beautiful. Let her wear what she wants, stuffy school rules be damned.
The passenger door opens and Jane smiles broadly. "Hey, T," she says.
Cristina Rizzoli, sixteen years old as of two weeks ago, climbs over and removes her mother's aviators so that she can kiss her cheek properly. She pops the bubblegum in her mouth with sass, and then huffs back into her seat. She shoves her bookbag to the floor and buckles her seatbelt. "Where's Mommy?" she asks, looking out the window as if she already doesn't care. But she does see Jane's fingers drumming incessantly on the center console, and laces her own with them, not saying a word.
Jane is thankful for the stillness and for the touch that Cristina is so inconsistent in giving these days. "Uh, Mommy got held up at work. We're off to get your brother and run a couple errands. Then I got a meeting I gotta get to at four," she says, pulling away from the curb and gunning it as soon as she can.
Cristina pops her gum again and shrugs. "Ok, let's get to it, then."
St. John's upper school is to the Northeast of St. Christopher's, so Jane takes Cross back over to Hanover and turns right onto Fulton, where another pick-up loop awaits her. The kids here are a lot smaller, sixth to eighth grade, and teachers organize dismissal much better than at the high school.
Her son, Franciscu, her brother's namesake, plods along in black slacks and a white polo shirt with the St. John's insignia on it. He has combed and slicked black hair, and olive skin just like his uncle Frankie. He wears glasses, and he takes his sweet time because he's reading a book while walking. He bumps into a girl in his grade and apologizes, blushing and closing his novel for later. He checks his digital watch, glances up to the loop, dashing toward the car when he sees that it's his Ma's. He swings the door open, throws his backpack across the backseat.
"Oh hey, oh, kid, what're ya doin'?" Jane scolds, checking him out through the rearview mirror.
He blushes again, and pokes his head toward the front row to hug his mother from the side, kissing her hair, the same color as his. "Sorry, Ma. Just got excited I guess."
Cristina turns back and looks at him, smirking wickedly. "I saw you almost eat shit just now, Cicciu."
"I didn't-" he begins, but Jane cuts them off.
"Hey, language in the car! Language anywhere! Where you get off talkin' like that in front of me and your brother, huh?" she demands of Cristina when they whip back over towards Prince Street.
"Oh c'mon, Ma, it's just shit. You say it all the time," Cristina whines. They make their way quickly, given that tourism dies down after the summer in the North End.
"Yeah yeah, well do as I say and not as I do, a'right?" Jane assents, and then parks in front of Bova's bakery.
"I am doing what you say," Cristina snarks.
Jane is already out of the car when she hears it, but she turns around and leans her forearms on the open window. "Good one kid," she says with a smirk. "Watch the car. I gotta get a pie for dessert tonight."
Cristina kisses her hand and blows it to her mother. Then, she watches Jane give a double-cheek kiss to the lanky teenager behind the Bova counter, who hands her a whole ricotta pie in a box. Jane gives them a fifty and tells them to keep the change for themself, and Cristina watches their eyes go wide at a nearly twenty dollar tip. Jane waves goodbye, and then Cristina checks the backseat to make sure she's done her duty of keeping an eye on everyone. Her brother is already nose-deep in his book again, but he's there, unharmed. She expects Jane to throw open the driver side door and hand her the pie, but Jane disappears around the corner instead. Cristina knows not to panic, especially if Jane has a pastry in her hands, but several minutes go by, and she sweats with the uncertainty.
When Jane comes into view again, with that hitch in her gait that gives her hips that authoritative metronome, Cristina can't help but soften. Her mother has the pie balanced in her right hand and a bouquet with in-season magnolias and roses in the left, and Cristina knows she's been to Venezia Flowers, Maura's favorite organic flower shop in their neighborhood.
Jane does indeed hand her the pie. Cristina puts it on her lap and takes the flowers, too. "Did you do something bad?" she asks as she sniffs them. The smell makes her giddy and calm at once somehow.
"No," Jane says, eyes on the road, but lips upturned in a grin. "I can't do somethin' nice?"
"How long have you and Mommy been together?" Cristina asks instead of answering.
Jane taps her fingers on the wheel and thinks. Cicciu has perked up, waiting for this answer himself. "Depends. We countin' Sicily?"
"I don't think you should," Cristina says. "She says that Sicily was, and I quote, 'merely a carnal prelude to-" Jane covers Cristina's mouth just before she can say any more.
"What's a carnal prelude?" Cicciu calls from the backseat.
"Nothin, bud," Jane says back to him. "Your mom said that to you? Jesus," she turns her attention to Cristina again. "When she says you share everything…"
"Relax, it's not like she goes into details. Ew," Cristina assures Jane. "I'm just saying it shouldn't count because you weren't together together."
Jane does relax in her seat a bit. "Well, then it's been… seventeen years. How old are you, sixteen? Yeah that sounds about right. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I just think it's nice that you still buy her flowers, is all. Even when you're not in trouble," Cristina says.
Jane smiles goofily because it's rare that her teenager expresses approval of anything she does, let alone talks to her about love.
"Yeah, I think it's nice, too," Cicciu chimes in. "I'd like flowers sometimes."
"Yeah, Cicciu? I'm going to have to remember that when I go back to Venezia," Jane says, heart melting twice over. She'd buy her son a thousand bouquets if she had to, if it meant keeping him around forever, if it meant her kids were happy. She pulls up to their building just in time, and nods toward the door. "T, take the pie. I got my meeting at four, but we should both be back shortly after that. Ok? Just in time for dinner."
The kids disembark after each giving her a goodbye kiss and grumbling their assent, suddenly very adolescent again. She watches them use their keys to open the door, and then disappear inside. She puts the Range Rover in drive and makes her way toward the waterfront.
The DiVincenzo brothers, the guys who run the New England family, have owned Bellissima Salon since 1995. It makes them money because they inherited it freely from Ray Patriarca Junior, and because Jane runs a tight ship. When they gave it to her in 2009, four years after her return from Sicily and two years into her young marriage, she turned a dying hair shop for the Italian grandmas in the neighborhood to a pretty hip salon that stays busy. She did all this with Maura's help, of course.
And now, pulling into the staff parking lot behind the place, she notices that the usually happening, vibrant salon sits devoid of customers. The front desk girl, Anna, thumbs through a copy of People at her post, visible from the ceiling-to-floor windows out front, looking thoroughly bored. Jane doesn't blame her, because usually she's knee-deep in appointments at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. "Hey Anna," Jane greets when she opens the door and it jingles. The hair dryers all blow at full blast toward the back of the building.
Anna looks at the flowers in Jane's hand and smiles. "Hey," she says. "Maura's in the back."
"Perfect, thanks. Listen, why don't you head out for the rest of the day? I got the keys; I can lock up," Jane offers.
Anna perks up, blinks. "You sure? Ok," she replies. "Thanks, Jane."
Jane waves her away. The dryers crescendo near the entrance to the storage area of the building. Jane opens the door to a room, and then goes through that to another door, which leads to a workspace, darkly lit and with cement floors. When she closes it, the screams get louder.
When she walks down the hall to the two offices at the end, she can tell it's a man. A man she knows, who is in so much pain he sounds like a child. So, she opens the office door on the left, and confirms her suspicions.
Maura, in black scrubs and a surgical gown, with purple nitrile gloves to match, sits on a wheeled office stool in front of Marty Pascale, all manner of surgical instruments on the desk next to her. Bobby Genovese holds Marty's mouth open while Maura uses extraction forceps to pull out a tooth, the second of Marty's appointment.
Marty screams and blood gurgles around his throat, close to the hole where two of his back teeth have been pulled. He sweats profusely. Jane walks up to the scene, just behind Maura, who is seated and doing Marty the favor of sanitizing the site of extraction. Maura doesn't look up from her work, but offers Jane her cheek instead, and Jane kisses it, holding the flowers out.
"Beautiful," Maura comments, as if she isn't playing franken-dentist on the guy in front of her. "Wait for me out front? I'm almost done here."
Jane stands up and nods. "Sure thing." Then she looks right at Marty's forcefully spread jaws and tsks. "This is why you shouldn't have taken that over on the Dolphins, Marty." Then she waves to Bobby. "Hey, Bobby."
Bobby, with his shaved head, nods politely to her. "Hey, boss," he says just as she heads out.
Maura snaps her gloves off when she feels satisfied with her work. Bobby lets go and Marty slumps under the ropes and tape on his body. "Alright, Marty. I took two, and I'm adding interest. Which means you owe the book ten thousand in a week. If we don't see it, we'll have to establish some… alternate payment options." She stands, removes her gown and tosses it in the trash with her gloves. "Roberto here will take you back to work. Bobby, see to the mess, will you? I have a meeting and I need to change."
Bobby starts cutting away at Marty's restraints. "Sure thing, Dr. Rizzoli. Spic and span."
"Good."
Jane turns away from the front windows when she hears the door to the back swing open. "Hey," she greets Maura, who has replaced her scrubs with a pencil skirt, heels, and a long-sleeved cream blouse. Jane likes how it makes the golden hue of her skin and her hair pop. She likes that Maura's eyes look greener.
"Hi," Maura says. She takes the flowers from Jane and kisses her properly: no teeth or tongue, but long, loud, and sweet. "Where's Anna?" she asks when they pull away.
"I told her to take the day," explains Jane. "Said we'd lock up."
"Ok," Maura consents easily, already out the front door and adjusting a diamond stud in her ear. The flowers are in the crook of her arm, same as her handbag. "Do you think Gaetano will be on time?"
Jane locks up and then checks her watch. 3:50. "My guess is no," she answers. "He hasn't shown up on time in his whole life, which is why Desiderio is losing money. For the first time in its existence."
Maura taps a few fingertips on Jane's jaw when Jane opens the passenger door for her. "Well, then it would behoove him to do so now. Before you do something drastic."
"I never do drastic things," Jane whines when she starts the car. But then she meets Maura's eyes and they both dissolve into laughter. "Yeah, let's just say, I hope for his sake and for Frankie's sake that he's relatively punctual."
"You mean because Teresa will bug him if you do something to her father?" Maura asks. Evening is settling in early on this mid-October day, and Maura anticipates the chill it will bring. It means that Jane will wear coats, and layer, and… she redirects herself back to the conversation at hand.
"Exactly," Jane says. And in about ten minutes, they park in front of Desiderio, a whisky-bar type of nightclub that features burlesque dancing on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The outside sign, Desiderio in pink neon, flashes to let them know they've arrived. Jane sighs for fortitude and sniffs. "I hate makin' trouble for him, but maybe it's his fault for having fucked her in the first place."
"Maybe so," Maura agrees. "Should we go in? Put Gaetano on an… improvement plan and get this meeting over with? I'd like to spend at least some of my Friday night with my family."
Jane smirks, and then unbuckles her belt. "Me too, kid. Let's go."