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Ryan followed me to the kitchen, where I gave him a little bump of food and poured myself a glass of water.
The room was dimly lit by the light over the stove—the one Luca always left on. In the weeks since he’d been locked up, I hadn’t touched it. I often sat in the dark, staring at the stove as if Luca would walk in the door any moment.
Dejected, I logged onto my laptop and checked my email, hoping for an update on when I could visit Luca.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Instead of wallowing, I opened the revised plan for the casino that would have us opening on Halloween instead of New Year’s Eve. After the Fourth of July fiasco, Marco asked me to look into the logistics of moving up the opening date. I told him there was no way, but I was wrong. With Michael’s help, we discovered that we could get it done with a hefty increase in budget and a little contracting.
As I sent the changes to Ashley and the team, a shadow passed by the French doors. I jumped off the bar stool, water glass in hand, ready to throw it with the aim to maim. The silhouette walked past the window, and my body sagged in relief when I recognized the man’s gait.
“Fucking Frankie.” I slammed the glass on the counter and stomped outside. “Come inside, you fucking creep.”
Frankie looked over his shoulder. “I’m doing rounds.”
“Fine. Finish your rounds, then come inside. You’re freaking me out, lurking around in the dark, making me feel like someone’s casing the joint and just biding their time.”
He sighed and went around the corner of the house. I stood on the patio, waiting for him to return, annoyed that any of this was necessary.
As he closed the side gate, he said, “You shouldn’t be wandering around half-naked. And I shouldn’t be coming inside in the middle of the night while you’re half-naked.”
“If I promise to get dressed, will you come in and have some coffee? You’re one of the few allowed in the house.”
Frankie scanned the backyard like he was hoping for a masked gunman to hop out of the bushes and save him from spending time with me. But all that was there was our manicured lawn, the sounds of insects, and the neighbor’s water feature. “Fine. Go put on some clothes and I’ll start the coffee.”
I rushed away before he changed his mind, grateful to have someone to talk to, or more accurately, talk at.
When I returned downstairs, two immaculate lattes—complete with foam art—sat on the kitchen island. Frankie stood at the counter mixing something in a big bowl.
“Holy shit, Frankie. You know how to do latte art?”
He shrugged and poured some batter on a skillet.
I took a sip and hummed. “Delicious. Maybe you should forget all this mob shit and go into the barista business.”
Frankie shook his head and poured another pancake.
“Maybe one of those hipster diners since you seem to know your way around that frying pan.”
“Can you shut up and drink your latte?”
Silence settled around us as I drank half my coffee. As Frankie made pancake after pancake, my heart started to ache. The sight was so familiar, but at the same time, wrong as hell. A Gambini where my Moretti should be.
Frankie set a short stack in front of me, along with butter and syrup. “Here. Eat.”
“Well, if you insist.”
That first bite was disappointing because I was expecting the gourmet experience of one of Luca’s masterpieces. But there was no mistaking that Frankie was a good cook. We ate in companionable silence until he collected our plates and took them to the sink.
“Those were pretty good. Where’d you learn to cook?”
Frankie rinsed the dishes, then loaded them into the dishwasher. “My mom.”
“Of course. I’m sad I didn’t get to talk to Mama Gambini more at the rehearsal dinner.”
“She liked you,” Frankie said with a bit of reluctance like he was giving up state secrets.
“You sound disappointed.” I tried not to laugh at him as he scowled.
