3. Warmth.

Fio watched Avilio's predicament unfold from across the table. He could hardly finish half the food on his plate before the cook—a stout, barrel-chested woman they called Nonna—piled on more.

"Eat." She commanded. "Disgraceful. So skinny! Like twig. We must fatten you or people say I bad cook."

Avilio pushed around the sausage, peppers, and eggplant. "I'm full."

"That is joke? I no laugh."

The acting don for the Vanetti Family sighed. Fio passed him a napkin-covered basket. "More bread?"

She smiled innocently when he made a face that said Et tu, Brutus? But his revenge came swiftly. "You lost weight since we last met. Didn't they feed you in Chicago?"

"Yes. Poor girl. You eat too. Di Piu!" Nonna moved to the other side of the table with her pan. "So thin. Tsk tsk. Men like women with some meat. Like me!"

Avilio smirked. Fio raised her brows. "Nonna, what are we having for desert?"

"Ah! New recipe I clip from papers, is pineapple upside down cake. Deliziosissima."

The young man's smirk vanished. Fio feigned disappointment as she continued. "That sounds wonderful, but since Avilio says he's full, we'll just have to save it for tomorrow."

Avilio glared at her, then at the food left on his plate, swallowed at the thought of pineapple cake, and resumed eating.

She beamed. If there's one thing Fio learned growing up, it was how to get boys to eat their vegetables.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Barbero knocked on the steel double doors. A moment later the grille slid open and he found himself regarded suspiciously by a pair of grey-green eyes. "We don't need no insurance."

He smiled. "I'm not an insurance salesman. Is the proprietor in?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Barbero. I represent the Vanetti Family."

They were taken to the manager's office, with a bird's-eye view of the stage and dance floor below. A polished bar counter ran along the length of the mahogany-paneled room. Waiters spread fresh linen over tables in preparation of the evening service. Tigre whistled. "Swanky. Didn't know Lawless had a joint like this."

"Gentlemen!" A man in a white dinner jacket and a receding hairline strode in, arms extended. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Mr. Donavon. This is a marvelous establishment you have here." Barbero shook the man's hand, noting the clamminess. "I'm sorry I did not stop by sooner."

The club owner laughed too loudly. "Come by any time, everything on the house!" Barbero's smile was a thin line that did not reach his eyes. Donavon stopped laughing. "So, eh, how can I help you?"

"You've been mixing other makers' dross with our product and selling it as Lawless Heaven." Barbero spoke evenly, enunciating clearly. "We ship you five crates a week, during which you pour triple that amount."

"That's… that's… we had left over stock."

"Don't take me for a fool, Mr. Donavon. We have witnesses."

"I'll make it up to you, right away, I swear!" The balding man began to perspire profusely. "Does... does Don Bruno know?"

"He does." The consigliere watched the blood drain from the man's face as he slid into a chair. "He is displeased, but understands we are partly responsible for the shortage, which is why he sent me instead of our other associates."

Donavon looked at Barbero with a glimmer of hope. "What must I do?"

"Don Bruno wishes to become business partners. The family will take a stake in this establishment for fair consideration. We will then prioritize supply here over other speakeasies. Everybody wins."

Barbero took a typed contract from his briefcase and set it down. The club owner wavered, droplets staining the front of his shirt. His eyes bulged when Tigre reached inside his coat… and withdrew a pen, which he uncapped and placed on top of the contract.

"Thank you, Tigre." The bespectacled man folded his hands, returning his attention to the quaking man. "Mr. Donavon, my current boss is a persuasive man. He persuaded the federal prosecutor to go home. He persuaded the Galassias to stay out of Lawless. The few he couldn't persuade are in the ground."

"You seem like a reasonable man."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She found Avilio asleep in an armchair facing the fireplace, his feet propped on top of the ottoman. Carefully, she removed his shoes and returned with a blanket, covering him up to his chin. Then she sat in the opposite chair and studied him, his fine features illuminated by the quietly crackling flames.

She was fascinated by how different he looked asleep. Without his brows knotted in a constant glower he looked his age; two years her junior, yet already the toast and terror of Lawless.

He had driven her to Midnight Mass earlier. When they arrived she stood a ways away as others were welcomed in by greeters. Eventually people stopped arriving and she heard the hymns begin. Her cheeks went numb from the cold. Still she did not enter.

She felt him dust the snow from her shoulders. Avilio led her toward the entrance, and when she hesitated he turned back to her. "You'll freeze out here."

Fio looked at the ground and the mess of footprints. "Maybe that's what I deserve."

They stood there in the darkness, their breaths briefly visible as puffs of white. He didn't let go of her hand. "If church was reserved only for the blameless, no one would go."

So they went together.

Back home, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "…Thank you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Something tickled his nose. When he turned to his side, the annoyance followed until… "aaaaaahhhhhHHCHOOO!"

He blinked awake groggily and saw that it was day. All the curtains were drawn back to reveal a pristine snow had fallen overnight. Through the window he spotted several men busy shoveling out the driveway. In the background the mansion bustled with activity and the air was filled with an aroma of spices and baking. Fio stood over him, a green apron tied around her waist and a smile on her face. "Good morning, Avilio, Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas…" He was surprised to find the blanket, looked up and narrowed his eyes at the feather duster in her hand. "Could you have wakened me another way?"

"Nonna offered me her rolling pin. I doubt you'd have liked that."

The cook came up to the pair, flour-covered hands brandishing the aforementioned instrument. "Finally. Up, up! So much to do and this buono a nulla lies around like a log, getting in everyone's away." The old woman turned to Fio. "See how you spoil him?"

Fio pulled him to his feet and smoothed out some creases in his shirt before urging him upstairs. "Come on. The guests will arrive soon."

To be Continued.

Author's Notes: Episode 8 was shocking and fantastic. The show just doesn't let up! Even though this story is a mid-series departure AU, I still want to keep it as close to canon as possible. Thus I find myself hedging about the fate of characters, since you never know who will survive until the end of the series.

I'm fairly sure Fio is a year or two older than Avilio/Angelo? That just makes them cuter. Also; the recipe for pineapple upside down cake does appear to have become popular/published in the mid-1920s.