I stiffen. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sandro studies me, his brow lifting. “She left the kitchen the second you walked in today. And the upstairs hall. And the foyer.”
“She left dinner early last night too,” Miko adds helpfully.
Truth be told, Aisling hasn’t said more than three words to me all week.
She’s been glued to Evi’s side, hauling furniture around the house, fixing curtains, restoring the place to its former shine. If she hates the work, she hides it well.
But every time I show up, she abandons the room—to the point that it would seem even my brothers have taken notice.
That will have to stop.
If she truly wants to make this fake marriage work, we have to demonstrate a more united front—or my brothers might not be so willing to put everything on the line.
“I appreciate the cataloguing,” I mutter. “Very helpful.”
They fall silent as we reach Vassallo’s Bakery on Sedgwick Street, one of the many places that used to pay tribute to my family under the table.
We step inside, and the bell above the door gives a half-hearted jingle as the smell of sourdough greets us boldly.
But no one’s behind the counter, and my skin prickles at the still silence.
Sandro steps closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t do something stupid, did you?”
“Define stupid.”
“Did you piss Aisling off?”
I give him a look.
He shrugs. “She’s a woman, Raf. The list of possible offenses is long.”
“She’s mad,” Miko says around a mouthful of biscotti he stole off the counter, “but she’s also avoiding him like he’s contagious. That’s not normal anger. That’s premeditated.” He pauses, then points at me. “What did you do?”
I grind my teeth, but mercifully, I’m saved from answering the question as the baker emerges from the back, flour smeared on his apron, worry pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Signori Chiaroscuro. You’re… back?” He says it like a question, like we might vanish again if he blinks too hard.
“We’re back,” I say. “And things are returning to normal.”
Relief flashes over his face before he tries to hide it. “The Japanese have been coming by, demanding double—sometimes triple—the usual rent… and smashing things up when I can’t keep up.”
There it is. Another small business bled dry because of Kenji’s greed. I’m starting to think he didn’t want to rule our territory. He wanted to suck it dry so we would have nothing to come back to if we ever tried to reclaim our turf.
“We’ll handle them,” Sandro says, leaning against the counter with the casual confidence that makes his authority unquestionable. “Your rent pays for our protection, so they won’t be bothering you anymore.”
The man nods so fast, I think his head might pop off.
“We’ll give you a month’s reprieve on rent.” Then I slap a thick stack of cash onto the counter. “To help cover the repairs you’ve had to make,” I add. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Relief breaks openly across his face now. “Grazie.Thank you, truly.”
With a nod, we head back out the front door, and I scan the street to ensure the extra men I’ve assigned to the area are on full alert.
They look natural enough, but it isn’t hard to spot them with my practiced eye as they loiter in doorways or chat up the convenience store cops.
Sandro waits until we’re a block away before circling back to the real problem. “You never answered my question.”
