“Fuck,” I breathe.
“They’re escalating,” Matti says grimly, appearing at my elbow. “That was meant for you.”
“No shit.” We’re silent watching the flames dance. “It’s a message.”
Tommy frowns. “You think they missed on purpose.”
“He’s telling me he knows where I am, that he can reach me anytime, but for some reason, he’s not.”
But why? Why make a show of force here and not at Sophie’s? If it’s Aurelio, why not take me out and get it over with?
This just confirms that Sophie must be a part of it, that her goal is to extract information. Maybe Aurelio wants more than just me and my brothers out of the picture. He wants to make sure he gets my information and access to the ports first.
“I need another car,” I say flatly.
Matti stares at me. “You’re still going to her place.”
“Fuck yes, I’m still going.”
Matti’s jaw works. Finally, he shakes his head. “Just… don’t hurt her. Please. For Siena’s sake.”
I don’t answer. Because I intend to do the exact opposite.
18
Sophie
The lunch rush never materializes.
I stand at the pass-through window, watching Mr. Cavallari settle into his usual corner table as the afternoon light slants through the Arsenal’s tall windows. He looks frail in the light, a single elderly man with his newspaper and espresso.
One single elderly man. Just one.
I should be used to the emptiness by now. But today, with Vin’s praise still warming my heart, the silence feels heavier, more oppressive. Like maybe there’s more than these four walls.
“Sophia!” Mr. Cavallari’s voice carries across the empty dining room, rough but warm. “Come. Sit with me.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, the white cotton already marked with olive oil and tomato sauce. “I should prep for dinner service.”
“What dinner service?” He gestures at the empty tables with a gnarled hand, liver-spotted with a slight tremor. “Come. An old man wants company.”
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as Mr. Cavallari folds his newspaper with precision. His eyes, cloudy with age, fix on my face.
“Sit,figlia.” Daughter. He’s never called me that before.
I sink into the chair across from him. This close, I can see the neat way he’s knotted his tie, the careful shave job marred only by one missed patch under his jaw. A widower’s grooming.
“Mr. Cavallari—”
“Angelo.” He waves a dismissive hand. “After two years of keeping your restaurant alive, I think we can use first names, no?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You’re not keeping it alive. You’re a valued customer.”
“Sophia.” The way he says my name, the Italian way, with the long ‘i’ that makes it sound like a song, stops me. “I am an old man who eats here twice a day because the food reminds me of my mamma’s kitchen in Napoli. Because you cook with love, not just skill. But we both know the math doesn’t work.”
My throat tightens. I look away, focusing on the menu chalkboard I update every morning with specials no one orders.
“I never had children,” he continues, his voice softening. “My Carmela, she couldn’t. We tried for years. Prayed to every saint. But God had other plans.” He pauses, and I hear him swallow. “If I’d had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be like you. Smart. Talented. Kind.”
