“We were shocked at your father’s—” she looked down at the table “—you know. We talked at the funeral, you and I. It was a shock to everyone.”
“And your family suspected you-know-who double crossed my father?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. No, of course not. That didn’t make any sense at all. Your family was expected to grow in power, territory, and make a lot of money from that deal. And so was your new business partner. He was going to make even more money and have even more influence. Your family partnering with him was a huge win. You-know-who was the last person we suspected.”
My lips turned down. What did this mean? It confirmed my own feelings about everything Quentin had told me. It made no sense for him to kill my father. They were both on track to make a lot of money. My father’s death had left Quentin vulnerable, and a lot of people suspicious.
When a big Italian mob family got suspicious, people tended to disappear.
As Quentin Vanetti was about to find out.
Unless I could prove Quentin's innocence before my deadline. I exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “You realize what this means. It points back to one of the New York families.”
“Yeah.” She nodded agreement. “And The Baker. But I swear we had nothing to do with this.”
“Who else would use The Baker to deliver a deadly pastry?”
She shrugged. “Could be anyone. He’s a freelancer and well-respected. I can make some calls.”
Hope filled my chest, and I slowly nodded. “Be discreet. I don’t want to bring anything down on you.”
“Agreed.” She finished her mimosa and grinned like we were still school girls. “I’m ordering Crème Brûlée.”
“That’s what I wanted. Torched at the table.”
“Order the sour cream cheesecake, and we’ll split.”
“Deal.”
∞∞∞
Because I’d decided to stay the evening in New York before brunch, I still had my room. I’d also let the pilot know to expect me around midnight, and he had assured me they’d be ready, regardless of the time.
Chiara had pulled me into a hug before leaving. “Be careful,” she whispered. “I'll call if I find anything.”
I desperately hoped she would. Because the thought of going through with this—of putting a bullet in Quentin—sent panic through my chest. The crushing weight of what I'd have to do threatened to drag me under.
To get my mind off those depressing thoughts, I decided to head to my father's house.
The decision came suddenly, but once it formed, I couldn't shake it. The house had been locked up since Papa's death—Carlo hadn't wanted anyone disturbing potential evidence. But now, weeks later, maybe there was something everyone had missed. Something that would prove Quentin's innocence or reveal who really killed my father.
Or maybe you just want to feel close to him again.
Both things could be true.
I took an Uber to the Upper East Side. The brownstone looked exactly as it always had—elegant, imposing, unchanged by tragedy. But seeing it empty, knowing Papa would never walk through that door again, made my chest tighten.
I used my key. The security system beeped its familiar greeting, and I punched in the code with muscle memory. The alarm fell silent.
The house was too quiet.
No sounds of Papa working in his office. No housekeeper bustling about. No life. Just the hollow echo of my footsteps on marble floors and the faint smell of lemon polish.
I stood in the foyer, suddenly unsure. What was I looking for exactly? The police had been through everything. Carlo's people had combed every room. What did I think I'd find that they hadn't?
I should start with his office. That's where it happened.
My feet carried me down the familiar hallway before I could talk myself out of it. Past the formal dining room where we'd hosted Sunday dinners. Past the sitting room where Papa would read the paper every morning. Past all the spaces that held memories of a man who was gone.
