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Tony drove in silence to the dealership, which was in Edison, New Jersey. That would have been nice to know before spending close to two hours on the road.
Dante was trying to wear me down.
I wouldn’t let him win.
* * *
After four hours away from the Portofino, it was Dante’s lunch hour when I returned. He was already seated at his usual booth at La Cucina della Mamma. I stopped in front of the table and glared at him. My mood was shit after that long ass drive.
“Sit or leave,” he said without looking at me, his eyes onThe New York Times, which was open to the Business section.
“I’m starving. Are we eating pizza again?”
He shook his head and folded the newspaper in half. “I’m having chicken cutlet. You can order whatever you want.”
A moment later, the waitress put his plate on the table before him. She asked if he wanted anything else. Then he tipped his head at me.
“Can I have the Caprese salad and a Diet Coke?”
She bobbed her head.
After she walked away from the table, Dante cut into the chicken and stuffed a piece into his mouth. He ate half of the chicken before looking at me. “Why do you drink Diet Coke?”
I shrugged against the leather bench. “I don’t like all of the sugar from regular soda.”
“You shouldn’t drink soda. It’s bad for you. Full of chemicals and carbonation.”
Our server set my soda in front of me with a heaping salad bowl and left without a word.
Business as usual.
“Have you spoken to your father today?” Dante asked with a smirk.
“No, why?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him.” He set his fork on the plate and studied my face as if searching for a lie. “It’s unusual.”
“I’m sure he’s just busy. We have a lot of payments to disburse this week. I think he mentioned something about meeting with new clients.”
Mostly lies.
At the end of the month, we handled the bulk of the distributions. But my dad hadn’t said anything to me about new clients.
Dante was right.
It was unusual.
My father was a workaholic and never missed a day. Throughout my childhood, he put his responsibilities to the Luciano family above all else—including me.
“Hmmm…” Dante brushed his knuckles beneath his chin, aiming that haunting gaze at me. “Giancarlo didn’t mention anything to me about new clients.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just an oversight.”
His eyebrows rose. “Yes, an oversight, I’m sure.”
He said one thing, but his tone indicated another. This was the first time I sensed Dante was suspicious of my father.
Did he expect me to confess?
