The neon sign 'Mamma's Trattoria' flickered like a dying heartbeat, one ragged breath away from flatlining.
Lazar had always wondered how such a kitschy and borderline run‑down facade could hide a risotto that good, as well as a network of informants nearly as tasty.
He pushed open the door with one hand, the other kept free, prepared for whatever surprises might be waiting on the other side.
The bell overhead chimed as the air hit him with garlic, tomatoes… and the faint scent of suspicion.
Three occupied tables : a couple, another, and a lone man buried behind a newspaper, too still to be genuinely reading it.
Lazar knew the restaurant like the back of his hand. Still, he gave the room a quick sweep, just in case it had sprouted a trapdoor overnight.
Exits? Right where they had always been. Chairs, bottles, cutlery… enough improvised weapons or shields to get creative if things went south.
The customers, if that's what they really were, were spaced out just enough not to be an unmanageable problem.
His brain ran through the motions on autopilot, annoyingly meticulous, like a control‑freak secretary who didn't believe in days off.
Then again, that overcautious reflex had kept him breathing. 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 be 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 that stripped away the pretense.
Still, the bulge under his jacket and the outline at his ankle spelled it out : the apron and tray were just camouflage.
"Table for one?" The 'waiter' asked.
Lazar gave the man a quick read, another overgrown kid in the trade 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 playing around, I have an appointment. She's expecting me."
A brief smile flickered across the waiter's face.
"Mamma's been longing for you." He replied, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
"This way." He added, gesturing to the swinging door separating the dining room from the back.
Lazar let the odd phrasing slide. He went where he was directed in silence, threading between tables, never turning his back on the room.
Call it a habit, or call it useful paranoia.
The swinging door sighed shut behind him.
The smell shifted : basil, olive oil, simmering meat… and, faintly, burnt metal, the kind you smelled after something exploded.
"Well, well! My little iceberg, right on time!" Boomed a woman's voice, warm and smooth, her singsong accent filling the space.
A woman in her early forties, Mamma, without a doubt, stormed into the room from the kitchen like a thunderclap in high heels.
She wore a tight black dress under a lemon-yellow apron, stained with sauce and dried blood that might have belonged to an animal… or not.
Her hair was a wild mane of black curls, tempting to touch, if you didn't value your fingers.
She had curves that could shake a priest's faith, and a bare face that didn't need makeup to make trouble.
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.
"Relax, sweetheart. It's a hug, not an attempt at putting you in a chokehold."
Lazar lifted an eyebrow, one hand resting on the gun holstered at his belt, perfectly living up to his reputation as a man who thought saying 'hello' was already pushing intimacy.
"It's specifically a hug I was trying to avoid." He said, deadpan, "I would have handled a chokehold with less overkill."
Mamma clicked her tongue, the sound promising payback, before heading to the room's solitary dining table, a modest two-seater already set with a plate hidden under 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 faint flicker of satisfaction beneath his hood's shadow, her semi-permanent grin turned affectionate.
"I made you lasagna. Not the greasy slop I shovel into fat fucks with doberman taste buds who think arrabbiata sauce is just spicy ketchup. This is the real deal, beef so pampered the breeder's wife filed for divorce when she realized the cow was getting more foreplay than her."
She waved her hand over the plate, a silent warning that it was hot enough to bite back.
"I timed the preparation with your arrival, and since you are right on time, it came out of the oven just now."
She then tilted her chin toward the empty chair across from Lazar.
"I was this close to making something for that lukewarm sack of cum." She said, making a tiny gap between her fingers, her voice as sweet as vinegar.
"But since the only thing he's ever on time for is diving into whatever hole his whore-of-the-week is offering, well, tough break. I don't feed ghosts."
Lazar sniffed, letting the dish fill his head before he let it fill his stomach.
"I'm guessing that's not just a hunch."
"Indeed. And just giving you a heads-up for later. Twenty minutes late, he gets my frying pan. Thirty or more, I dig a hole out back. With how full of shit he is, he might finally be useful as fertilizer."
She smiled, wide and slightly deranged, the way a mother might when she's about to punish her child, and enjoy every second of it.
"My bet's on more than thirty. Shovel's ready. I can bust his kneecaps so he can't run, unless you want the honors, sweetheart?"
Lazar slowly pulled back his hood, like removing a mask he no longer needed.
"Just wait till I'm done talking to him. Then he's all yours."
Strands of black hair fell over his forehead, damp from the heat.
Cold and unexpectedly beautiful, 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, hand on her chest, mouth half-open, as though Lazar's face was a minor miracle she had never witnessed before.
"My God. I could never get used to it. You look like a sexy movie star posing for a mugshot. Let Mamma give you one kiss on that grumpy little cheek."
Lazar's voice cut in, dry and quick, before she could carry out her threat.
"Keep pushing, and you will be the kind of modern art people stare at for a long time, trying to figure out what it used to be."
Silence stretched briefly.
Then Mamma's laughter exploded, a warm, throaty 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 then you will act human."
She headed back to the kitchen, muttering to herself as if silence would make her vulnerable.
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 thump of a knife on a cutting board, and Mamma loudly singing off-key.
Seated at his table, Lazar was finishing his plate quietly, intent on leaving nothing behind.
He swallowed the last bite, the soothing comfort of tomato and molten cheese still settling in, unaware that the relative peacefulness of his meal was about to be interrupted.
SWOOSH-BANG!
The swinging door slammed open.