by Becky Melby
She walked the bike into the street. Her foot hadn’t left the ground when she heard her name from across the street.
“Hey, Gianna.”
“Where are you off to on this gorgeously hot day, Renata-bata?”
Rena smiled. It was the same question her father had asked, but this silly nickname and the smile changed everything. “The park.”
“Lovely.” Gianna shifted her bucket of cleaning supplies to her other hand as she walked across the street. Perfectly straight teeth glimmered from her perpetual smile. Rena’s aunt described Gianna as a “Sophia Loren caricature.” The comment was mean, but it did kind of fit. Her nose was too large and her mouth too wide to be pretty, yet she carried her large-boned height with a transfixing grace, and her smile dazzled.
Gianna leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy.” She wiped moisture from her upper lip. “Nicky home?”
“Nah. But Dad is.”
“Ohhh.” Gianna drew out the word. The smile stayed but stiffened. “Where is he?”
“In his room.”
“Mmm.” Gianna glanced at the restaurant and back at her car. “I have some shopping to do.” Her eyes lit. “Wouldn’t you rather go to Kohl’s with me than exercise?”
“I’d love to, but…”
“But you’re meeting someone.”
“Well…”
One artfully shaped brow arched. A manicured hand rested on the waistline of Gianna’s peach capri pants. “A male someone.”
Rena cringed, looking up at the window over the stairway, as if her father stood there reading lips.
“Is he a good boy?”
There were a million ways a person could interpret a question like that. “He’s wonderful.” Well, he used to be.
“Would I approve?”
She would have to throw that one in. “He’s not Italian, if that’s what you mean.”
“That is not what I mean, and you know it.” Hash marks formed between the sculpted brows.
“His parents go to church.”
Gianna shook her head. “God doesn’t have grandchildren.”
Rena looked at her feet. “I know.”
“Be careful.” Gianna patted her arm then dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Guard your heart…and the other parts you shouldn’t share.”
Cheeks warming, Rena nodded. “Love you.” She lifted her foot and rode off the curb.
“Love you to the moon.”
“And back.” She shot the automatic response over her shoulder and got on her bike. She’d been saying it as long as she could remember. Rena had no memories of her first three years before Gianna swept into their lives. On Gianna’s one and only dinner date at the restaurant with Carlo Fiorini, she’d figured him out. She’d jilted him but fallen for his motherless children, convincing him to hire her as a nanny and housekeeper.
Rena had given the woman reason to quit more than once, and today could well be one of those days. If she got caught.
But she wouldn’t.
She rode past old two-story houses with porches and imagined, as she always did, what it would be like to grow up in a real house instead of above a restaurant. A couple walked along the sidewalk holding hands, and she let herself wonder about that, too. What would it be like to have someone who spoke words of love rather than want? But it worked both ways. She used Jarod, too. She gave him what he wanted, and he kept her safe. Right now, until she found a way to break free, that’s all she needed.
She squeezed all her doubts into a manageable lump as she rode into the parking lot. Like an ice cube, painful until it finally melts. And it would.
Her pulse skipped at the sight of him. She chained her bike to the rack. It never hurt to keep a guy waiting a little while. She walked across the parking lot, conscious of every move she made in her tight shorts and how her tank top edged toward her shoulder, showing off her tattoo.
He leaned against his car, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His muscles bulged when he folded his arms across his chest. He lowered his sunglasses. Just like a movie star. She might not love him, but she loved the look of him.
But she didn’t like the look of his eyes today. Seeing him like this in the middle of the day was way different than at a party at night when everybody else was smoking. It made her feel somehow not good enough. Why did he want to get high before meeting her?
With a deep breath and a forced smile, she snuggled into the arms he opened for her. “Better get our skates on.”
Jarod laughed. “I thought the skating thing was just what you made up to tell your brother.”
Rena couldn’t tell if his laugh was aimed at her or the situation. “You didn’t bring skates?”
His laugh erupted into a sound she knew was directed at her. “I don’t own skates.” His fingertip traced the tender area around her tattoo. “We got better ways to—”
The sound of tires crunching gravel swallowed his words. Jarod swore and shoved her away. Rena turned to see a foreign-looking car with chrome wheels pull into the parking lot. Sliding his fingers into his front pockets, Jarod motioned with his chin, a gesture telling her to walk away. Private business. She was used to that. But she wasn’t used to a car like that, or a man in a jacket and tie. He rolled the passenger window down. Jarod walked over, all cocky like some kind of thug on a cop show. He leaned into the open window.
They talked in hushed and hurried voices, and the man drove away.
Rena knew better than to ask.
Jarod pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Now, where were we?”
As his hand touched her skin, she closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.
Nicky ripped off his shirt and tucked it in the back of his shorts. He slowed his pace. A subtle breeze blew off the lake, cooling his skin as the sweat evaporated. He felt good. The workout was purifying, purging his body of toxins and his mind of a build-up of negative thoughts.
It freed him to dream.
The old dream had to go, but Bracciano had to change with the times. If they didn’t, they could go under. He wouldn’t let that happen. Their specialties had been handmade only by a Fiorini for over eight decades.
It was time to move.
For months, the thought had been pestering like a persistent mosquito. He’d tried killing it, but it kept returning. Twice he’d opened his mouth to broach the subject with his father, but each time he imagined the vein in his father’s forehead pulsating, the dark eyes smoldering. His father hated change.
Except when it came to women.
A dark blue Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot as he skated toward the Javelin. Gleaming alloy wheels caught the sunlight and spun it.
Welcome to the new Bracciano, sir. Nicky imagined the voice of the young valet he would personally train. Enjoy your evening, sir.
I intend to. I’ve heard marvelous things about your chef.
Chef Dominick is the best, sir.
He smiled to himself as he rolled to a stop. Feeling like a new man, he lifted his face to the sun. As he turned toward the car, his thoughts froze. Two kids leaned against a beat-up car, lip-locked in an almost obscene embrace. A cloth bag hung over the girl’s shoulder. A bag exactly like—
His breath caught. Fingers spasmed into fists. “Renata!”
CHAPTER 8
Iced tea’s done.” Dani set the pitcher on the counter and looked over at Vito’s wife.
“Thank you. Why did God not give me a daughter?” Lavinia glanced toward the front door. “Check on the garlic bread, okay?”
Lavinia was up to something. Please, Lord, not another blind date. Ever since the first time Agatha broke down at work and Vito invited Dani to dinner, Lavinia had been trying to find a “nice Christian man” for her. They’d introduced her to two of Vito’s nephews, their mailman, and the guy who installed their water softener.
The garlic bread was still on the pale side. “Just a couple more minutes.” Dani closed the oven door. “I’ll set the table. Just
the three of us?” Please.
“Why don’t you toss the salad?”
The salad looked sufficiently tossed, but she picked up the tongs and repositioned the cherry tomatoes.
The clang of the front door opening made her jump.
“The police force has arrived,” Vito shouted from his recliner in the living room.
Lavinia picked a tomato from the salad bowl. Her eyes glittered. “Come on in the kitchen, Todd.”
“Lavinia!” Dani stomach seized. This can’t be happening.
Running fingers through gray-streaked curls, Lavinia shrugged. “Why didn’t I think of him before? A cop and a reporter—a match made in heaven. Don’t tell me he didn’t turn your head.”
“He didn’t turn my head. Yenta.”
“Ha. I don’t believe you. He’s cute; he’s single. You’re pretty; you’re single. Chemistry, I tell you.”
Dani pointed a fork at the little round woman who stood eye to eye, challenging her to admit her attraction to the policeman. The stare down lasted only seconds. Dani laughed. “What a conniver. I seriously didn’t think about the guy once after I met him.”
“We’ll see. I listen to God when He gives me a nudge, and He tells me something’s going to happen here tonight. Something for your future.”
Something like getting arrested for accessory to murder?
Lavinia pinched her cheek. “Be a good girl and put the salad on the table.”
There was nothing to do but smile and act polite and pretend her abs weren’t going into convulsions as Todd Metzger walked in, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Okay, so maybe her head turned just now. Just a little.
“How’s my Italian mama?”
“Stupendo.” She pinched his cheek. “How’s my pale Norwegian boy?”
“German.”
“Whatever. You’re all pasty-faced.”
Todd laughed and turned to Dani. “Nice to see you again, Danielle.”
“Dani.”
“Whatever.” He mimicked Lavinia’s tone. “Nice to see you again, Dani.”
Lavinia pulled a pan of mostaccioli from the oven. She looked at Todd and nodded toward the basement door. “Call the troops.”
“Troops?” Dani stared at the door handle turning beneath Todd’s hand. The knot in her gut wrenched tighter.
“Soup’s on!”
Footsteps. The door opened wide. Renata, the waitress— Dominick’s sister—stepped into the room. Behind her strode the King of the Universe himself.
Lavinia! The scream stayed in her head as she greeted Renata.
The girl shrugged. “Call me Rena.” Lavinia pulled a pan from the oven. “Nicky, you remember Dani.”
Dani nodded at the man who’d tattled on her for crashing a funeral. Stupido. She knew other words, thanks to Vito, but she wasn’t that kind of girl.
Dark eyes narrowed as he returned her nod.
Headed toward the table with the steaming pan, Lavinia walked between them.
Nicky plucked a piece of pasta, dropped it into his mouth, and closed his eyes. “Dolce signora, I am in love.” The sharp angles of his jaw softened. “When will I learn to cook like you? When will you come to work for me? I steal your recipes and still nothing I make is like this. Delizioso.”
Lavinia set the pan on the table. The reluctant smile teasing the corners of her mouth as she raised her hands and shook her head spoke of a history of forgiving against her will.
There were stories in this house.
Vito’s recliner squeaked. “Let’s eat,” he said as he walked into the room. He took his chair at the head of the table. Lavinia sat at the opposite end. Dani ended up next to Todd and across the table from Rena and Nicky. Vito folded his gorilla hands and lowered his head. “Bless us, O Lord, and these gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Todd picked up a basket of garlic bread and passed it to Dani. “So you’re a reporter.”
Wherever this was going, she already didn’t like it. “Yes.”
“That explains what you were doing the night we met.”
“The night we met.” It sounded like a line from a chick flick.
He rubbed the sandy beard stubble on his chin. “I just have to wonder—”
“Todd.” Vito pointed at a cut glass dish. “Have a pickle.”
Todd smiled and picked up the dish. Lavinia pointed a fork at him. “Tell Dani about the concert at your church.”
One shoulder shrugged. “We’re doing sort of a coffeehouse thing.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll write down the website before we leave.”
“He’s so modest. Todd’s a drummer. An excellent drummer. You like rock music, don’t you, Dani?” Lavinia nodded and her chin jutted slightly forward and to the side.
“Sure, but I lean toward the quieter stuff.” Dani aimed her answer at Todd. “Chris Tomlin and Matt Redman’s worship songs, and Colbie Caillat, Jamie Cullum, Nora—”
“Jones?” Rena leaned forward. “That’s Nicky’s kind of music. Bet you like Katie Melua’s stuff.”
“I”—she swallowed hard—“Yes. I love ‘The Flood.’”
“Nicky just bought—”
“Rena.” Lavinia picked up a glass dish. “Have a pickle.”
She took the dish and passed it. “Have a pickle, Danielle.”
What’s going on? It seemed like everybody was working off a different script. Lavinia was trying to set her up with Todd, and Rena acted like she was trying…No. Just her imagination. Change the subject. “What do you do for fun, Rena?”
The girl darted a glance at her brother. “I hang out with friends.”
Nicky’s seemingly permanent scowl deepened. Stories.
“Mostly I just work.”
“Well, you’re good at that. Some waitresses I’ve met never smile.” She gave a half wink that could pass for a nervous tic. “I think it must be the working conditions.”
“Yeah, I love my job.” Rena gave a carbon copy of the half wink.
“The food was delicious. And the atmosphere so”—she raised one eyebrow—“friendly.”
Rena coughed on a bite of mostaccioli. “That’s us. The happy Fiorinis. Our happy family has been giving that place a happy atmosphere since 1923.”
A chill shimmied up Dani’s back. Should she tell Rena about the diary? It wasn’t the kind of secret she wanted to keep to herself.
She’d read a dozen or more entries before falling asleep. Not enough to figure out how the girl who started in Osseo ended up in Kenosha. She could have skipped to the final year of the diary, but she hated reading endings first. “I love old buildings and the stories behind them. Do you know much about your family history?”
“I don’t, but Nicky does. He listens to my grandfather’s old stories.”
Lavinia poised a spoon over the pan. “If you like historic buildings, you should see the house on Third Street Todd grew up in. Not far from you, Dani.” She turned to Todd. “Dani lives in the cutest little apartment across from the Kemper Center. You two are practically neighbors.”
Could you be any more obvious, Lavinia? Dani arched her brows at Todd. “But I wasn’t born into the Mansion District. So you come from ooold money.”
“No, I come from ingenious parents who bought a run-down mansion and turned it into three apartments. My peeps are landlords, not land barons, and they bought it when I was in high school. I actually grew up in an upstairs apartment two blocks from here. He pointed a butter knife at Nicky. “At least I’m not descended from the mafia.”
Nicky closed his eyes for a millisecond and shook his head. “Have a pickle, Metzger.”
Dani pushed aside her plate. A streak of whipped cream was all that remained of the chocolate chip cannoli. “Delicious.” It was at least the third time she’d said it.
Nicky stood. “Anyone want more coffee?”
So he does have a thoughtful cell in his body. Dani watched the bulging-over-biceps gray shirt disappear behind the cupboards
hanging over the counter that separated the kitchen and dining room. This was her chance to corner him. And blast him.
Before she worked up the courage to follow him, he was back with the coffee pot. He refilled every cup, including hers. When he got to Lavinia, he bent and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“What’s that for?”
“For dinner. And for putting up with me.”
Lavinia blushed.
Maybe she wouldn’t blast him. Maybe she’d just ask. Dani picked up her plate and stood. “Guess I’m on KP duty.” She followed Nicky into the kitchen.
“You called the paper.” She waited for him to turn around.
He slipped the pot back into the coffee maker. Seconds passed before he looked up at her. For a long time. Without a word. Then finally he nodded. “I’ll help you with dishes.”
What?
“You will not.” Lavinia materialized from out of nowhere. “This is your day off. Get out of here. Go enjoy that car for the rest of the night.”
Todd walked in carrying a stack of plates. “She’s right, Nick. I’ll help with dishes.”
Not a chance. Dani had no intention of being left alone with the cop and his questions. “I think the girls should do dishes and let the men shoot pool or something. Rena, come help me.”
Lavinia shook her head. “I have something to show Rena in my sewing room.”
Nicky grabbed a pad of paper from the refrigerator and scribbled something on it. Todd peered over his shoulder. “What’re you doing?”
Something vaguely resembling a smile lit his dark eyes. “I’m giving the woman my phone number.” Without making eye contact, he thrust it into her hand and walked out.
Todd picked up a dish cloth. “What was that all about?”
She slid the paper deep into her back pocket. Her hand shook as she reached for the towel. “I have no idea.”
Todd washed and she dried. Through glasses and silverware, they chatted about their jobs. While seemingly engrossed in scraping the burnt edges from the mostaccioli pan, Todd tipped his head and stared at her over his shoulder. “You’re covering the story, aren’t you?”
“Story?” The wide-eyed stare might buy her the moment she needed to figure out her own story.