In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(47)

“Is she still in coffee?” I asked.

“She is. The coffee people are having a rough time of it.”

“Those Rimbaud laws are as stupid on coffee as they are on chocolate.”

“I know it,” Mouse said.

“Anything else we should discuss?”

“Well, the Russians have been silent a while. I don’t necessarily like it or trust it. However, I’ve heard that they’re channeling their excess supply to other families and to other countries. So maybe they’ve made peace with the fact that the Balanchines are out of the chocolate business.” She took a drink. “Maybe knowing that messing with Balanchine means messing with Ono was enough to calm everyone down. Who knows? I doubt it though. We’ll definitely hear from them again.

“Congratulations on your marriage, by the way,” Mouse said. “I was going to get you a present, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

“What to buy for the mafiya daughter entering an inevitably tragic marriage of convenience.”

“It’s hard, right? She’s the girl who has everything.”

“I guess what I’d like is for no one in this Family to have to take a job dealing illegal chocolate ever again.”

“I’m trying, Anya.”

“I know you are.”

We shook hands. Neither of us were the hugging kind.

“Anya, wait. Before you go. Thank you.”

“For what, Mouse?”

“For recommending me to Fats. For trusting me with so much more than anyone ever had. For never asking me what my crime was. For everything, my whole life really. I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve saved me.”

“Loyal friends are hard to come by, Mouse.”

* * *

The last person I saw before I left town was Mr. Delacroix. He took me out to dinner to celebrate my marriage. A restaurant had opened across the street from the Dark Room. There had not been a new restaurant on that block for a decade.

Mr. Delacroix was contemplating a run for mayor. He had gotten quite a bit more popular since helping me open the Dark Room. If he did run, I knew it would mean that he would have to leave the business.

“I’m not certain married life agrees with you,” he said. “You look very tired.”

“The travel.” I used my standard excuse.

“I suspect it is more than that.”

I gave him my haughtiest look. “We don’t speak of our personal lives, colleague,” I said.

“Fine, Anya.”

The waiter offered us dessert. I declined, but Mr. Delacroix ordered the pie. “If you were my daughter—” he said.

“I am not your daughter.”

“But let us suspend disbelief and imagine that you are. You remind me of her a bit, you know. If you were my daughter, I would tell you to let go of any guilt you might be feeling. You made a decision. Maybe it was right; maybe it was wrong. But the decision is done. There is nothing you can do now except continue moving ahead.”

“Have you made decisions you regret?”

“Anya. Look who you are talking to. I am the king of regrets. But I might very well be mayor in two years. Life is turnabouts, my dear. Look at us. Wasn’t I the worst enemy of your seventeenth year of life? And now I am your friend.”

“I wouldn’t overstate matters, Mr. Delacroix. It has already been established that we are colleagues, nothing more. I saw your son at Natty’s graduation, by the way.”

“I know.”

“You always know everything.”

“Win told me. He said, ‘I am glad you helped her open the business, Dad,’ or something to that effect. He said that—wait for it—he had been wrong. My jaw nearly dropped to the floor. One is never prepared for one’s son to say something so shocking as, ‘Dad, you were right.’”

“Well, isn’t that good news come too late?” I twisted my wedding band around my finger.

“My dear, it is never too late. Now won’t you finish this pie of mine? And please get a good night’s sleep. You have a long flight tomorrow.”

“Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “If you do decide to run for mayor, you will have my complete support.”

“You have decided you won’t miss me at the Dark Room.”

“No, it isn’t that. I would miss your counsel more than I can say. However, I’m willing to sacrifice you to the greater good. In these years we have worked together, you have steered me right every time. Whenever I would listen, that is. And having seen the Bertha Sinclairs of this world in action, I would rather back you.”

“Thank you, Anya. The support and compliments of a colleague are always appreciated.”

XVIII

I MOURN AGAIN

IN OSAKA, THE END OF SEPTEMBER was the height of typhoon season, and my flight was delayed by weather for several days. When I finally arrived, the rains were pummeling the ground and the sole view from my window was a curtain of rain. Normally such a vista might have soothed me, but, on this occasion, it did not. Based on my conversations with Yuji’s bodyguard and Yuji himself, and based on what was and was not being said, I had begun to be frightened that I would not see my husband before he died.

I went straight to his room. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank. He hated such measures, so I knew the end must be near. Every time I saw him, there was less of him. I had a strange thought: if Yuji did not die, perhaps he would simply disappear.