She put her face close to his. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are.” And he kissed her softly. “But, there’s another thing. Olga, you can’t be washing money for these Russian cats. It’s all blinis and vodka shots until you end up dead in Little Odessa, and I love you too much to risk that happening. If you need money until you figure out what you want to do next, please let me help you.”
Olga laughed a bit. “Matteo, listen, I absolutely will stop, I promise, but I think when you offer to help you’re misunderstanding how much money I’m making off this right now.”
Matteo sat up and took her hands and took a deep breath.
“Okay. Listen. Now I guess I have to tell you something. It’s, uh, not a secret or anything, I just never had a reason to tell you … but, I’m, like … rich? Not, you know, Selby brothers rich, I’m not there, but, I, uh, I own a lot of properties.”
“What?” Olga asked, sitting up now.
“When I left the banking job, and sold the loft, I had a lot of cash. And when my mom passed, I was so sad and lost and all I had, I felt like, was here—this place. The neighborhood, the borough, the people I’d gotten to know. So, you know the bodega on the corner? Well, the owner of the building wanted to sell, and Sammy—who owns the bodega—was sure if they sold, they’d kick him out and knock the building down for one of those shitty new constructions like you live in. And, well, I just didn’t want to lose the spot. I like getting my coffee there, seeing Sammy, seeing the boom-box dude, shooting the shit. So, I offered the owner all cash, and…”
“Sylvia’s!” Olga exclaimed. A light dawning on her now.
“Yes … and, well, frankly, a lot of spots. Lots of old spots. Here, Williamsburg, your ’hood. I mean, that’s why I was in Noir that night in the first place. This Irish pub I dig over on the other side of the park … a bunch of spots, and they all have apartments upstairs and I just kept everybody’s rent the same and, frankly, it’s a lot of fucking money. Every month. And I get to keep going to these places I love, and they get to keep their stores and their apartments. Ninety percent of my real estate work is filling up my own apartments, though, honestly, most of my tenants don’t leave. And, Olga, it’s so much money I frankly don’t get these other cats. How much money does one person need? But I guess that’s the quintessential American question, right?”
But Olga was too busy beaming at him to engage in a philosophical debate about capitalism. She felt something that she remembered was desire begin to tingle in her.
“Matteo Jones, why didn’t you tell me that you were a superhero?”
“Because of the money?” he asked. “I’m happy to—”
“No! Not the money. Are you kidding?” she asked genuinely. “Because you’re saving me—all of us—from being washed away. You’ve put down little anchors, even if it’s just a few. Even if we’re just little dinghies floating in this big sea. I didn’t think I could love you more.”
“Oh yeah?” Matteo asked with a smile.
“Or, frankly, find you hotter.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Have you ever fucked in the Christmas room?”
“Girl,” he said as he crawled closer, “what we’re doing is making love.”
SEPTEMBER 23, 2025
SOL LIBRE
Olga had just walked out of the bodega and onto Fourth Avenue when she heard her phone ring. She’d lingered, drinking her coffee and gossiping with Sammy for longer than she intended and was now running late, so when she saw that it was her brother, she hit ignore.
She was genuinely delighted when he had met Marcus, truly happy when they fell in love, and ecstatic when they got engaged, but if she had to talk to him one more time about his fucking wedding plans, she was going to shoot herself. She was happy to put on her old hat and lend a hand, but he was worse than the worst of her brides, or grooms for that matter, fixating all of his attention—and calls—on micromanaging the music selections. He and Marcus had picked a song with “meaning” for everything: the usuals, like walking down the aisle and first dance, but also the ridiculous, such as pairing songs with food courses like one would do with a wine. Each time Prieto would send another request to the DJ, he would call his sister so that she could assure him that yes, that was a good selection and yes, she would stay on top of the DJ. Which she had zero intention of doing because at the end of the day, he’d be having too good a time to remember what song was playing in the background when he was served his braised short ribs.