Chapter 4
Vito Carelli double-checked the lock on the back entrance of Fiorello’s and set off. He was bone weary but felt the contentment of knowing he had worked hard and had fed people all day and evening long. The pleasure he knew they took in his simple Sicilian food was a comfort. Occasionally, he would peek out from the kitchen and watch their expressions when they took a bite of something he’d made. If it was the first bite, especially, Vito found a sense of joy and delight in their expression. It was something he called, in Italian, the look. That expression of pure satisfaction. Sometimes they closed their eyes, almost in rapture. The look made it all worthwhile.
But now his shift was over, and Vito was feeling empty as he walked the streets of Chicago’s Rogers Park neighborhood
