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Besides, I’ve got a grandfather in a home in Augusta. I’m not really looking for a replacement.
Orlando’s been in Boston catching up with the Riccis, an Italian family running underground life there that serves as the muscle and financial backing for the Montaltos here.
But that doesn’t explain his current presence.
“What are you doing here? Where is everyone?” The thought that maybe he snapped and killed his family crosses my mind for a split second, and I take a step back, gaze flickering to Poppy, trying to determine the best course of action for rescuing a baby from harm and escaping it myself.
His gaze narrows, seeming to catch on to where my thoughts have wandered, and he snorts, rubbing his large nose with the base of his palm. “Calm down, Juliet, if I wanted to kill you I’d surely have done it by now. I’m old, not stupid.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I cock a hip and wait, unwilling to give him anything else before he offers me something.
“Gesù Cristo,” he mutters, sounding just like his son. “Did no one tell you?”
“Tell mewhat?”
“Your sister’s in labor. For fuck’s sake, ItoldBenny to leave you a note. They asked me to come watch Poppy until you woke up.”
I blink, trying to process his words. “I’m sorry, she’s inlabor? And no one woke me up to tell me?”
He shrugs, tossing Poppy a quick glance as my tone climbs higher, becoming almost inaudible. “I guess they didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m gonna kill her.”
Heading back to the glass door, I pull it open and slip inside, letting it fall closed behind me. It opens a second later, and Orlando follows me to the kitchen, a sleeping Poppy in one arm and my weapon of choice in the other. “Want your bread knife back?”
Resisting the urge to flip him off, I take my phone from my pocket, checking for messages. There are two from Selma and Avery in the group chat and one from Luca assuring me he hasn’t heard from Elia today.
Orlando walks to one of theViscayacouches, laying Poppy down on her back and tucking a maroon throw around her. He slips a pillow on one side, preventing her from rolling, and then comes back over and starts rifling around in the kitchen cabinets, pulling out various cookware and ingredients.
I press send on a scathing message to my sister, one she won’t even get for a while, depending on how far along she is. Scooping my keys from the ceramic bowl at the center of the quartz island, I slip on a pair of flip flops by the stairs and start toward the front door.
“Where are you going?”
Pausing, I glance at Orlando over my shoulder. “Where do youthink? I’m not gonna let Caroline go through labor alone.”
“She’s not alone,” he notes, cracking an egg into a skillet, whisking milk in. “In fact, she’s probably being better taken care of at this very moment than you can even imagine. You knowfigliomiowon’t let any harm come to her.”
“Right, but it’s not like hegetsit. He’s never had a baby before.”
“And you have?” He cocks an eyebrow, turning up the heat on the stove. “She’s fine,carina.Come, sit and eat a frittata. I want to chat, anyway.” My foot itches to move, my fingers curling around the keys until the jagged edges dig into my palms, indenting the skin like an engraving. “If you leave, I’ll have the cops throw you in jail for grand theft auto, since I know your name isn’t on the title of any vehicle in that driveway. Are you ready to be charged with a Class B felony at age twenty-two, Juliet?”
Groaning, I kick off my shoes; they thud against the wall and drop to the floor as I stomp back to the island and slide onto a barstool. “You’re kind of a dick.”
Chuckling, he moves from the stove to the counter and starts dicing red and green peppers. I watch silently as he transfers them from the cutting board to the skillet, and switching to an onion and jalapeno pepper and repeating the motions. “You don’t rise up in the criminal underworld without being one.”
This is the kind of relationship I yearned for with my father, the kind of give-and-take that didn’t leave you feeling like you’d lost a piece of yourself in the exchange. But instead, all I ever got from him was a cold shoulder, a long list of insults that branded themselves into my skin, and a massive guilt-slash-abandonment complex.
“Elia says you don’t cook.”
“I don’t.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Making you breakfast.”
My face scrunches up as he flips the coagulated egg mixture, lightly browning both sides. “What’d you want to talk about?”
Picking a plate up and transferring the food onto it, he ignores my question. Turning from the stove, he sets the dish in front of me, sliding a fork in front and leaning against the countertop, eyebrows raised expectantly.
