“Hell no.” Chiara laughed. “Anthony hires this sitter from the neighborhood to help. She’s with him today.”
I raised my brows. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s sleeping with her.”
“What?!” My jaw dropped. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does.” Her lips turned down. “I kind of want to kill him. But I’m so relieved to have the time away from the little demons, I sort of forgive and forget. Let’s talk about something else.”
I realized that, while Chiara was having kids, Aunt Filomena was grooming me to become a gangster. Because I was single,I had no obligations to stop me from stepping into the family business. I didn’t think it was a bad life, but I found her stories about her kids endearing.
“I guess the grass is always greener.”
She smiled, ate the last bite of her eggs Benedict, and nodded. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter what you have, it’s human nature to want something else.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
In our family meeting the night before, the Moretti family had been discussed. Carlo was confident the truce was still in place, but Silvio and Filomena were suspicious. Our families had a truce since back in my grandfather’s days. If they were behind the move on Vanetti, it would be well masked. I didn’t think it was a play they’d make, but anything was possible in this business. The ones who could hurt you worst were always the people closest to you—friends, associates, the ones you trusted.
I carefully timed a sensitive question between bites, hoping it would sound nonchalant. “You stay informed on your family's doings?”
She narrowed her eyes, scrunched her brows, and met my gaze. “You didn’t ask me here to talk business, did you?”
I held up my hands and forced a friendly smile. “No. Well—yes. Sort of. I have a problem. It involves a man.”
“Figures.” She shook her head and raised a brow. “Start with the gossip. Then I’ll decide if there’s anything to tell.”
I told her about Quentin without mentioning his name. Our dinner at his place. The kiss. The banter and warmth and also the possible attempt on his life.
“Poison?” she asked. “That sounds more like a jealous wife than a professional hitter.”
“That’s true.” I held up my coffee cup and took a sip. “But, doesn’t the Moretti family—” I lowered my voice to a whisper “—sometimes use Luca Dolce?”
She frowned, but said nothing.
Luca Dolce was known on the street as The Baker. He was a ruthless hitman who worked freelance, and his signature kill method—poison in pastry—made hits look like accidents or confused investigators about the source. Exactly what was happening in the case of Quentin Vanetti.
Chiara lowered her voice to just above the din of the restaurant and the piano music. “When I told Anthony I was meeting you, he made some calls. Then he put someone—no names here—” she glanced around the restaurant as if rival gangs and the feds might be listening “—on the phone to talk to me. Here’s the message.” She stopped as a waiter dropped off two mimosas.
She took a sip from the champagne flute and smiled. We’d decided to switch to mimosas before I’d changed the nature of the conversation.
“Go on.” I motioned with my free hand.
She set down her glass. “Our family was thinking of expanding west. I was excited, getting the kids out of New York, you know? Maybe settle in the suburbs and live a more peaceful life. Less traffic, at least. Anthony home more often.” She picked up her drink, sipped, and looked around again, seemingly a bit paranoid.
I was on the edge of my seat. “And what happened?”
“Your father made a deal with you-know-who.”
“You figured out who I’ve been working for?”
“No.” She smiled. “I suspected, and you just confirmed. But it’s not important.”
“Keep this close.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “Our families have been at peace for decades. Nobody on my side wants an end to that. Least of all me. You’re one of the few women I can talk to—” she waved her hands in circles “—about all this shit.”
“And so what happened?”
