The 'Mamma's Trattoria' neon sign flickered like a failing heart above the doorway, one beat away from threatening to flatline.
Lazar had always wondered how such a shabby facade could hide a risotto that good, as well as a network of informants nearly as mouthwatering.
He pushed the door open with one hand, the other held back and ready for whatever surprises might be waiting on the other side.
The bell over the door chimed as the air hit him with garlic, tomatoes… along with the not-so-subtle feeling that too many people had just looked up.
Three tables were taken : a couple here, another there, and one man by himself, hiding behind a newspaper he most likely wasn't reading.
Lazar knew the restaurant like the back of his hand. Still, he gave the dining room a quick scan.
Chairs, empty bottles, cutlery… everything he needed to get inventive if his visit took a bad turn.
The customers, if that's what they really were, weren't spaced in a way that suggested a set up.
His brain kept running the checklist on its own, annoyingly thorough, like some uptight secretary who didn't know what 'time off' meant.
Call it overcautious if you want. It kept him alive, so he could live with it. Literally.
A waiter came over. He wasn't smiling but wasn't stiff either, just professional, and far too neat to belong anywhere near sticky menus and cheap red wine.
Lazar knew what this place really was and he had spotted this guy somewhere else before, somewhere his act wasn't required.
Still, the bulge under his jacket and the outline at his ankle spelled it out : the apron and tray were just cover.
"Table for one?" The 'waiter' asked.
Lazar sized him up fast : another overgrown kid in his line of work who loved using code words where plain speech would do.
With those guys, every exchange felt like a dance, one where they were begging for a partner to match their steps.
Too bad for them, Lazar preferred solos, less chance of getting stepped on, "Stop messing around, I have an appointment. She's expecting me."
The waiter's face softened with a quick smile, "Mamma's been longing for you." He replied, a playful spark in his eyes, his professional tone fading out.
"This way." He added, gesturing toward the swinging door that led to the back.
Lazar brushed off the strange phrasing and went where he was directed in silence, threading between tables, keeping the room in the corner of his eye and never fully turning his back on it.
The swinging door sighed shut behind him.
The smell turned richer back here : basil, olive oil, simmering meat… and beneath it, an odd note of burnt metal, as if something had blown up not too long ago, which would not be out of character knowing the owner's personality.
A woman's voice floated toward Lazar, warm and velvety, with a sing-song accent that filled the room, "There he is! My little iceberg, punctual as ever."
A woman in her early forties, Mamma, burst in from the kitchen, her heels clicking loudly on the tile floor.
She wore a tight black dress under a lemon-yellow apron, stained with sauce and dried blood probably from an animal carcass… probably.
Her hair was a wild mane of black curls, tempting to touch, if you didn't value your fingers.
She had curves that could make a priest forget his vows, a mischievious gaze suggesting she would enjoy watching it happen, and a bare face that would be wasted on makeup.
Most men wouldn't just glance at her, they would stare, drawn like moths to a bonfire… right up until their wings caught fire.
She reached for Lazar, then stopped cold, hands suspended mid-gesture, as if the urge of touching him had been strangled halfway, "Ah. Right. I'm dealing with Mister 'hands off'."
She turned slightly, hitting him with a mock-hurt look, "Easy, sweetheart. It's a hug, not an attempt at putting you in a chokehold."
Lazar raised an eyebrow, one hand resting on the pistol at his belt, effortlessly living up to the image people had of him : a man who treated 'how are you?' like an intrusive question.
"I'm specifically avoiding a hug." He said, deadpan, "I would have handled a chokehold with less overkill."
Mamma clicked her tongue, the sound promising payback, then glided to the room's lone dining table, a modest two-seater already set, one plate waiting beneath a silver dome.
With a flick of her wrist, she uncovered the dish, steam rising in lazy tendrils, and gestured for Lazar to sit in front of it.
As she caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction under his hood's shadow, one crack in the iceberg, her semi-permanent smile turned affectionate.
"I made you lasagna. Not the greasy sludge I serve to fat fucks with doberman taste buds who think arrabbiata sauce is just spicy ketchup. This is the real deal, the beef I used was so pampered the breeder's wife filed for divorce when she realized the cow was getting more foreplay than she ever did."
She placed her hand on the handle of Lazar's fork before he could pick it up, "I timed the preparation with your arrival, and since you are right on time, it just came out of the oven. Wait a moment before digging in."
She then tilted her chin toward the empty chair across from Lazar.
"I was this close to wasting good food on that lukewarm sack of cum." She said, holding her thumb and forefinger a hair apart, her voice as sweet as vinegar.
"But given the only thing he's ever on time for is burying himself in whatever hole his whore-of-the-week is offering, well, tough break. I don't feed ghosts."
Lazar inhaled, letting the dish fill his head before it filled his stomach.
"If it's coming from you, I'm assuming it's not just a guess?"
"Indeed. And just a heads-up, twenty minutes late, he eats my frying pan. Thirty or more, I start digging out back. With how full of shit he is, he might finally be useful as fertilizer."
She smiled, wide and slightly deranged, like a mother about to discipline her child, only this one would enjoy the screaming part.
"My money's on thirty-plus. Calling it now. The shovel's already waiting not far. And I'm seriously considering kneecapping him so he can't dodge his sentence, unless you want the honors, sweetheart?"
Lazar slowly drew back his hood, like removing a mask he no longer needed, "Hold your horses. I will speak to him first, then I will hand him over."
Strands of black hair fell over his forehead, damp from the heat.
Pale with angelic features, his face seemed carved by fatigue and indifference.
His bright green eyes, almost unnaturally so, blinked rarely. His gaze seemed to look through things rather than at them.
Mamma froze, one hand on her chest, lips parted, as if Lazar's face was a small miracle she had never witnessed before.
"Madonna mia (my goodness)... I could never get used to it. You look like a sexy celebrity posing for a mugshot. Now hold still, and let Mamma steal one kiss off that grumpy little cheek."
Lazar's voice cut in before she could carry out her threat.
"Keep pushing, and I will dig a second grave in your garden."
Silence lingered for a second, then Mamma's laughter burst out, a warm and powerful sound that could have rattled the kitchen windows if they weren't reinforced.
"Born in a fridge, I swear. A kiss won't cut it, you are right. We need holy water. One splash, two cross signs, and maybe you will finally be able to talk like a man instead of a corpse."
She headed back to the kitchen, muttering to herself as if silence could kill.
A pan clanged in the back, followed by the roar of hot oil, she had probably just thrown something into it with too much passion.
A few minutes slipped by.
From the kitchen came the steady chop of a knife on wood, and Mamma's melodic humming.
Seated at the table, Lazar was finishing his plate in silence, intent on leaving nothing behind.
He swallowed the last bite and let the tomato and molten cheese linger on his tongue, unaware the fragile peace of his meal was about to be interrupted.
SWOOSH-BANG!
The swinging door slammed open.