“What more?”
Antonio taps another key. A different set of stills pop up. A restaurant interior, blurred patrons, tables close enough to have a friendly word with a neighbor. A familiar restaurant.
There she is. Bianca. Hair up. Chef whites. A silver bowl at her hip, her hand poised to finish a plate tableside. Sitting at the table are two more familiar faces.
Russos.
More photos blur by
“We pulled security from Luce di Bologna, where she worked in Florence,” Nico says. “These are from various nights, different weeks. Not always together, but often. The men are Russo. They ate there. They tipped heavily. Everyone in the room would have known them. So would she.”
I feel the first notch of something ugly in my stomach. “Are you telling me,” I say slowly, “that you think she knows the Russos?”
“Knows is the word,” Roberto says from the table, voice infuriatingly even. “Maybe more.”
My eyes cut to him. “Be specific.”
“Maybe she’s working with them.” He doesn’t blink. He never blinks. “Maybe they sent her to get close. Collect information. Put eyes on you, us.”
“No,” I say, before the thought can settle in everyone’s minds. Though I can see it already has. “No.”
“Why not?” he asks, and there’s no malice in the question, which makes me want to knock the chair out from under him more. “Because you don’t want it to be true?”
“Because it isn’t.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I met her because of her mother. The debt is real.”
“How do you know that wasn’t a setup, too?” Roberto’s voice softens in a way that feels like mercy and a knife. “All those years Sabina ran Regalia, then suddenly the restaurant needs an infusion of cash? Suddenly, Bianca is home and conveniently talented and conveniently attractive, and every thread leads back to you?”
“It wasn’t sudden,” I nearly growl. “Her grandmother died. She came for the funeral.”
“Her mother ran it for years,” Antonio says. “So why would Sabina pass it on to Bianca? Unless it was part of the setup. A legitimate excuse for her to get involved.”
I feel Luca’s glance. I refuse to meet it.
“Her mother isn’t that good of a liar,” I say, and I mean it. Francesca’s tells are small as beads, but they’re there, and they’ve never been there when we talked about the numbers. “She didn’t have to invent panic. She already had it.”
“Maybe the debt is real,” Vito says from the corner, finally chiming in. “Maybe the Russos saw an opportunity and took it. Or maybe they helped make the debt.”
I stare at the still on the screen until it blurs. Bianca in white, head down, finishing a plate. The men at the table connected to Russo. Leo Russo’s line in our lives runs back farther and wider than any of us thought.
“Say what you’re thinking,” Luca says.
“I’m thinking,” I say, slowly, “that if they wanted to watch me, there are easier ways than putting a beautiful woman who can cook in my path and hoping I look.”
“But you did,” Roberto says. “And now she’s working in your home.”
“My suggestion,” I snap out. “She didn’t offer that. I did.”
“They lucked out,” Luca says, like it’s a done deal. “Got more than they aimed for.”
“Not possible.” I refuse to believe it. “Why pull her out now? Why leave a trail obvious enough for us to follow? She’s more involved in my life than she was before Italy. If they wanted her in my life,ourlives, they would have left her there.”
“She broke a rule,” Nico suggests. “Maybe they never intended for her to get involved with you, so they pulled her out.”
“That doesn’t make sense either,” Antonio says. “The Russos don’t fight fair. If they sent Bianca in, it would be for that purpose. They wouldn’t have qualms about her getting too close to him. That’s what they would aim for.”
The breath leaves me, but no one notices while they throw ideas around about my life.
No. Bianca wouldn’t do that. Everything that happened between us in Italy wasn’t planned. Couldn’t be. The Sangiovese, the lamb, that first night. And all the nights after.
