Twenty-three #2
I groan and try coaxing her back into bed so Trixie can do some errands for us. I just want one more hour. No dice.
She’s ready to party.
We head to the kitchen, where I slice a banana while she kicks her feet in the highchair, babbling like she’s giving a TED Talk in Toddler. I sip my coffee and nod along like I’m her most devoted audience member.
“I did not know that,” I say, playing along. “Really? You did that?”
She giggles, waving banana-smeared fingers in the air.
“No way. How did you even think of that?”
More babble. More grins. Her eyes sparkle with mischief and joy.
“That sounds like an incredible dream. What are you and Trixie getting up to today?”
I lean in, like I might catch an actual word buried in the nonsense. When she’s done sharing her afternoon manifesto, I lock us in my room with a pile of toys and her favorite book so I can get ready for my meeting.
No workout. Again. At this rate, I’m going to turn into a doughy version of myself. I need to find a new time to sweat.
By the time we emerge, Trixie is back and has wiped down the highchair. Jessica’s in the kitchen, making butter noodles. “I’m sure when you went to Le Cordon Bleu you never imagined you’d be stuck making butter noodles for a toddler.”
“It’s not the first time.” Jessica chuckles.
Amelia reaches for Trixie, who scoops her up with a grin. “Someone’s kept their daddy from his sleep.”
“She had something important she had to tell me about,” I say, finishing my coffee.
“Lucky you,” Trixie teases.
Jessica glances over. “What can I make you for breakfast or lunch?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I pause. “Ellory was attacked last night. She and her friends were drugged. Keith’s driving me to my aunt and uncle’s, and Todd’s taking you over in about thirty minutes.”
She looks at Amelia in her arms. “Jim called. We’ll see you there.”
Jessica’s face hardens. “Do you think it was Willow?”
“You probably know more than I do, but really we’re not sure yet. The police are involved.”
I lean in and kiss Amelia’s forehead. “Be good today, okay?”
She babbles something that sounds like “okay,” but it might’ve been about bananas. Either way, I’ll take it.
Outside, Keith’s already waiting. As we pull away, I call Colleen.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Matteo.”
“I wanted to keep you in the loop. My girlfriend, Ellory, was attacked last night. It might’ve been Willow. The police are investigating. We also found more charges on my Amex.”
Colleen exhales. “That’s serious.”
“Yeah. I don’t know what to do.”
“If it’s Willow, she’ll have a tail so they can verify where she’s been and who she’s talked to. Also, she’ll be locked out of her room at the Fairmont by three today. She was given notice.”
“She hasn’t been to the house all week.” I verify to her.
“No surprise there. She’s never shown much interest in your daughter.”
“Thank God,” I mutter. “Still, courts tend to side with the mother.”
“At first, sure. But we’re building a strong case.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I expect to hear from her lawyer today. They’ll push back, but the gravy train ends now. She’s booked on a return flight tonight—your dime, part of the gift of her coming out for Amelia’s birthday.”
“She won’t be on that plane.”
“Which only strengthens our position.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Always.” She’s quiet a moment. “Do you think she’s behind what happened to Ellory?”
“Unfortunately, I do. She made a comment to Ellory about living off of me. But she owns a big share of Olivier.”
Colleen chuckles. “Yea, she doesn’t need you to buy her jewelry or things. That’s a woman who just needs trust and love.”
We disconnect, and I think about what she’s said. That’s big.
We swing by to pick up Ciro at the office. He climbs into the car looking like hell, coffee in hand.
“You’ve had a string of bad luck,” he says.
“I don’t count Amelia as bad luck. But Willow Jackson as her mother? That’s the curse.”
He snorts. “Fair. At least with her, what you see is what you get.”
I nod, staring out the window as we drive west toward the house we grew up in.
When we arrive, Gianna and Luca are just pulling in.
“What’s this all about?” Luca murmurs as we approach the house. “Did something happen with Willow?”
“It’s not about her,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Something else came up.”
Jim arrives with Dante and the private investigator just minutes later. Rebecca meets us at the door, pulling me into a tight hug.
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” she says, her voice warm with concern. “Is she going to be okay?”
“She will be. They drugged her and stole her jewelry, but she’s home now.”
“Any idea who did it?” Dante asks.
I walk them through everything—the bar, Sophie and Patrice, the police investigation, and Willow’s sketchy behavior.
“She’s recovering?” Gianna asks.
I nod. “She and Sophie and Patrice were all drugged. They’ll be okay, but it was close.”
Gianna immediately pulls out her phone. “I’m sending her a bouquet. From all of us.”
I blink. With everything going on, flowers hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Thanks,” I say, genuinely touched.
“As the investigation ramps up,” I continue, “the police are looking into her dad’s girlfriend, but I’m convinced it’s Willow. And then Olivier—Ellory’s father—dropped a bomb. He claims our dad borrowed money to buy the mine. He thinks it’s all connected.”
Everyone turns toward Paolo Rossi, our family lawyer. He’s been with us since our parents died, managing the estate and trust like a second guardian.
“I don’t believe your father borrowed a cent,” Paolo says calmly, adjusting his tie. “He always insisted he won the land with the mine in a poker game.”
We all nod. That’s the version we grew up hearing.
“Olivier mentioned the Caruso family.”
Paolo sits back. “They all went to jail and other families stepped into their place.”
But then Uncle Henry shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I think the game was rigged to make it look like he won,” he admits, his voice gravelly. “I didn’t know it then, but…certain things since have made me question it.”
“What kind of things?” I ask.
He looks at Rebecca, who gives him a small, encouraging nod.
“Your grandfather—was a runner for the Gamblé crime family when he was young,” Rebecca says. “And your maternal grandfather was his best friend. Stefano and Maria’s marriage was basically arranged. But they fell in love.”
Dante crosses his arms, feet braced like he’s ready to absorb a hit. “What made you suspect the poker game?”
Henry sighs. “For starters, your father never played poker. And he was just like Matteo, every tell written all over his face.”
“Hey,” I cut in. “I don’t show all my tells.”
“Yes, you do,” my brothers say in perfect unison.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Keep going.”
“It was subtle stuff,” Henry says. “At the funeral, there were a lot of unfamiliar faces, men in expensive suits and watches. Quiet, respectful. But the kind of presence that makes your skin crawl.”
My stomach knots. I remember flashes—black suits, murmured condolences, a heavy silence that didn’t feel like grief.
“Later,” Henry continues, “I found out many of them were Gamblé associates. At the time, I figured they were just there out of respect for your grandfather’s past ties. But now…it feels more like they were making sure their investment was protected.”
I glance at Paolo. “Were our parents mixed up with them?”
Paolo’s expression is steady, grounded. “I worked with both of your grandfathers. They were determined to go legit—for Stefano and Maria to live clean lives. I don’t believe your parents were involved in anything criminal.”
A long breath escapes me. That’s the answer I needed. They tried to leave a clean legacy. That still matters.
“What about the letters?” I ask, turning to Thomas Perez, Jim’s private investigator.
He leans forward, forearms on his knees. “We’ve scanned them. I’m comparing handwriting against old birthday cards and notes your mother kept. It’s painstaking work.”
“Sounds slow,” Luca mutters.
“It is. But we’re not dealing with an open case. These letters are fresh, but the details of the accident are cold. Once we have our analysis complete, we’ll loop in the authorities.”
“Are they worth reading?” Dante asks.
Thomas shakes his head. “Honestly? No. They’re disturbing. Not threatening, just…obsessive. Someone was watching her closely. And they wanted her to know it.”
“You think it could be the killer?” I ask.
“It’s possible. This kind of fixation? It escalates.”
Jim straightens. “I’ll have my team dig into the Gamblé family. See who’s still active. We’ll also track every property transfer tied to the mine—ownership history, hidden trusts, shell companies, everything.”
Everyone nods.
“I feel terrible,” Rebecca says suddenly, her voice breaking. “When I found the letters, I thought they were old love notes from Stefano. I tucked them away. Things were so chaotic after the accident, I didn’t think to question it, and I thought they were too personal to read.”
Gianna places a gentle hand over hers. “You were grieving too. Trying to hold everyone together. No one blames you for that.”
“Not for a second,” I add. “We were a lot to manage.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Ciro mutters.
Dante stands and wraps Rebecca in a hug. “Without you and Henry, we would’ve been scattered. You kept us together. If these letters help us find answers, then great, but this? This isn’t on you.”
He looks around the room, eyes steady and hard. “And remember, murder has no statute of limitations.”