The Capozzi Family: Don #1

A late-night diner hums under fluorescent light, chrome trim, cracked red booths, and the smell of coffee and fryer oil. Don Capozzi sits across from Joey in a back booth, the rest of the world muted behind rain-streaked glass.

Joey lazily nudges food around a plate, barely looking up as Don arrives. The tension from Tommy’s office feels far away here, buried under clinking silverware and soft kitchen noise.

She sets down two mugs, careful and professional, then lingers just long enough to catch the edge of the conversation before drifting away.

Joey finally looks up, the food forgotten for once, and the diner’s steady noise presses in around the new lead.

Joey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and finally gives Don a straight look. The diner keeps humming around them, but his attention stays put.

He taps the table once near the coffee mug, then glances toward the front windows as if measuring how far that answer travels.

Don lets the praise land with a dry, almost amused weight, then turns to the waitress without raising his voice.

Joey leans back, not offended so much as oddly relieved, while the waitress shifts her grip on the pot and waits on Don's answer.

Don stays in the booth, still and unreadable, letting the diner noise do the waiting for him. Joey watches him from across the table, then looks away as if he has already said enough for one night.

The waitress slips toward the back office, and the swing door settles behind her. Coffee steam drifts between the booths, thin as smoke.

Joey taps one finger against the tabletop, restless now that the conversation has stopped moving. He glances toward the kitchen door, then back at Don.

A truck grumbles past outside, shaking the window glass. In the booth, the silence turns from casual to purposeful.

Joey stops tapping the table. He gives Don a thin, crooked nod, the kind that says he understands the job and the insult both.

The waitress reappears in the doorway of the back office and pauses, one hand on the frame, reading the room before she speaks. The coffee pot rattles once on the counter behind her.

Joey leans back, jaw set now, letting the idea of him sit heavy beside Don instead of inside it. The booth feels smaller with the back office watching.

Don lets the silence stretch just long enough to sting. The waitress waits by the doorway, and Joey stays planted in the booth, taking the measure of the room instead of the man behind the door.

The name lands, but not cleanly. The waitress’s chin lifts a fraction, more cautious than impressed, and the coffee pot hisses behind the counter like it has something to say.

Joey shifts forward, elbows near the table edge, not quite volunteering but no longer hiding from the moment. The red-circled mark on the dock manifest flashes in Don’s memory, along with the name Maurice Delaro and the fact that somebody still protects him.

Don answers with a small nod and pushes out of the booth. Joey follows the motion without a word, chair legs scraping once over the tile.

The waitress straightens away from the doorway, gives them a wary look, and steps aside as Don leads the way down the narrow aisle.

They reach the back office door together. Don catches the knob, turns it, and the door swings inward.

Joey plants himself behind Don, jaw set, filling the doorway enough to make the cramped office feel smaller than it is.

The manager’s hand is already on a desk drawer, and the red-circled manifest copy lies faceup beside it, waiting for Don’s next move.