Chapter 8 - THE CAFE TABLE BY THE WINDOW
They married at City Hall.
Samantha cried.
Mateo signed witness.
Jenna brought coffee.
No black-tie mafia wedding.
No chandeliers.
No newspapers.
Audrey wore cream suit.
Vincent dark blue.
After ceremony, they went to Harbor Café.
Same table by window.
Audrey stared at chair.
“You sure?”
Vincent smiled.
“Yes.”
“Trauma exposure?”
“Bad sense of humor.”
They sat.
Jenna served coffee personally.
“Careful.”
She told Audrey.
Everyone laughed.
That moment mattered.
Two years before, table held marker.
Bullet.
Fear.
Now eggs.
Coffee.
Family.
Vincent’s organization had changed enough that word “mafia boss” became more history than active job, though city still used it.
Old men remembered.
Young reporters repeated.
He did not deny past.
He also did not glamorize.
When someone asked how he “got out,” he said:
“Slowly and expensively.”
True.
Legitimate holdings remained:
Commercial property.
Food distribution.
Construction.
Restaurants.
No collections.
No off-book enforcement.
No private gambling operations.
Not saint.
Businessman with history.
Audrey kept hospital career.
Refused to join charities just because married him.
Eventually did serve on community lung-health board because she cared.
Vincent donated only after board approved normal process.
No naming rights.
Audrey insisted.
Their marriage stayed practical.
Separate personal accounts.
Joint household.
Audrey retained her apartment for six months after wedding because lease remained.
Vincent did not complain.
Then she moved into his townhouse.
Not estate.
Townhouse.
Still huge.
She made him remove two unnecessary security men from kitchen entrance.
“No one needs armed guard to make oatmeal.”
Mateo called that quote legendary.
Vincent threatened to fire him.
Didn’t.
Audrey and Samantha remained close.
Samantha never fully trusted Vincent.
That was okay.
He accepted.
Christmas dinner:
Samantha:
“I still think taking her from café was insane.”
Vincent:
“Yes.”
Audrey:
“Correct.”
Mateo:
“Worst opening move in romantic history.”
Vincent:
“Please eat.”
Family.
Then one winter afternoon, Harbor Café hosted memorial fundraiser for shooting victim from first day—a pedestrian injured by flying glass.
Vincent paid medical restitution privately years before.
Not hush money.
Documented.
The man recovered.
Came.
Shook Vincent’s hand.
Awkward.
Human.
Audrey stood behind counter for nostalgia.
At 4:15 exactly, Jenna handed her a sixteen-ounce coffee.
“Don’t.”
Audrey warned.
Jenna grinned.
“Tradition.”
Vincent walked in.
Audrey stared at coffee.
Then him.
Everyone watching.
She stepped carefully around counter.
“Very funny.”
Mateo filmed.
“Delete that.”
Audrey said.
He did.
Good.
She placed coffee in front of Vincent without spill.
He looked disappointed.
“You learned balance.”
“I lost my greatest skill.”
Then something happened.
A young waitress stumbled behind them.
Coffee splashed onto floor.
She froze.
White-faced.
“I’m so sorry.”
Audrey looked at her.
The girl looked genuinely terrified.
Not of Vincent specifically.
Of making mistake near important people.
Audrey said:
“It’s coffee.”
The girl blinked.
Vincent picked up napkins.
Helped wipe.
No staff swarm.
No anger.
Just mess.
Audrey watched him.
There.
Change.
Not speech.
Behavior.
Later, walking home, she said:
“You know what saved you?”
“Coffee.”
“No.”
“What?”
“My refusal to panic after spilling it.”
He looked at her.
“You panicked.”
“Internally.”
“Very heroic.”
She laughed.
Then:
“But really?”
He waited.
“It was disruption.”
“Your whole life ran on routine.”
“Same café.”
“Same window.”
“Same guards.”
“Same confidence.”
“Sebastian knew all of it.”
She squeezed his hand.
“I ruined routine.”
Vincent smiled.
“You do that often.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Do you ever wish it didn’t happen?”
He thought.
“The shooting?”
“Yes.”
“Obviously.”
“Coffee?”
He looked at her.
“No.”
She smiled.
“Careful.”
“I know.”
They walked.
Snow starting.
Chicago lights.
No one following.
May you like
At least not today.
That was enough.
