Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bella Vista occupied a corner building that had been gorgeously restored—one of the few buildings that had escaped demolition during the zoning for Downtown Millcrest. The restaurant’s facade was all exposed brick and arched windows.
Inside, terracotta tiles stretched across the floor beneath our feet while hand-painted murals of Tuscan hillsides adorned the walls.
Soft lighting made everything look warm and inviting.
The lunch crowd was substantial but not overwhelming, the murmur of conversation mixing with classic Italian music playing softly overhead.
The hostess—a woman in her fifties with kind brown eyes and an elegant black dress—greeted us with a warm smile and a slight Italian accent. “Welcome to Bella Vista. Two for lunch?”
“Please,” I said.
She led us to a table near the window, handed us leather-bound menus, and promised our server would be right with us. The dining area was even more beautiful than I’d expected—white tablecloths, fresh flowers on every table, artwork that looked original and expensive.
“This place is gorgeous,” Penny whispered once we were alone.
“Vicente has good taste,” I agreed, opening my menu even though I already knew what I wanted.
Our server arrived moments later—a young man with an efficient smile and what looked like genuine enthusiasm for his job. “Good afternoon! Can I start you with drinks?”
“Sparkling water with lemon,” I said. “And I’d like the puttanesca, please. With extra olives and capers.”
“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”
“Carbonara,” Penny said. “And sparkling water as well.”
The server made notes and left. Penny leaned forward. “Okay, we’re here. We’re eating at a mobster’s restaurant. Let’s just have a nice meal and then—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixing on something across the restaurant. All the color drained from his face.
“Penny?”
“I think that’s Vicente Antonelli,” he whispered.
My skin prickled immediately. I turned carefully, trying not to be obvious.
An older man sat alone at a corner table near the far window, reading what looked like an Italian newspaper over espresso.
Late eighties at least, with silver hair combed back in that old-fashioned style that somehow looked distinguished rather than dated.
He wore dark slacks, a crisp dove-gray shirt, and a navy cardigan that was probably made of expensive cashmere.
Gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. Simple watch, perfectly shined shoes.
He looked like someone’s beloved grandfather. The kind who would slip you extra money and tell you not to tell your mother.
Not like a feared mob boss at all.
“Are you sure?” I asked quietly.
“I believe so,” Penny said, clutching his fancy cloth napkin until his knuckles whitened. “Mrs. Henderson pointed him out once at the farmer’s market. Yep, that’s definitely him.”
I studied Vicente more carefully. Several staff members hovered nearby—not obviously protective, but clearly attentive. The deference in their body language was unmistakable.
“I need to talk to him,” I heard myself say.
“No!” Penny gasped, grabbing my arm. “What happened to stepping back?”
“It’s just a conversation. Public place.” I stood before I could talk myself out of it. “We’re just asking about Thomas for the memorial service. It’s expected, really. They did work together.”
“That’s the thinnest excuse I’ve ever heard,” Penny hissed, but I could see him wavering.
“Come with me?”
Penny stared at me for a long moment, clearly torn between loyalty and self-preservation. Then sighed dramatically. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”
My heart pounded as we crossed the restaurant. I was acutely aware that I was approaching a man who’d allegedly been involved in multiple criminal undertakings over the years. But I was also aware of the lunch crowd around us, the staff watching, the public nature of our interaction.
Vicente looked up as we approached, his dark eyes assessing us with keen intelligence. For a moment, none of us spoke. Then I forced myself to take that final step forward.
“Mr. Antonelli?” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “My name is Leo Sterling-Hart. I’m Joe and Benji Sterling-Hart’s grandson. I know this is forward, but I’m helping prepare a memorial service for Thomas Wong.”
I paused, my words hanging in the air between us. Then, the rest tumbled out in a rush. “I heard you worked together on the preservation project in the 70s. I was hoping you might share some memories of him?”
The restaurant’s ambient noise seemed to fade away as Vicente’s dark gaze held mine. He removed his reading glasses slowly, folding them with precise care. Then his weathered face broke into a warm smile.
“Ah! The piccolo calzolaio with the red hair!” He gestured graciously to the empty chairs at his table. “Please, sit, sit. I have been wondering when someone would come to ask about Thomas.”
I exchanged a glance with Penny, whose expression clearly said this is a terrible idea, but we both sat.
“Your hair,” Vicente said immediately, studying me with open appreciation. “It is like autumn leaves in Tuscany.” Then his gaze shifted to Penny, and his smile widened. “You are very eye-catching too, young man. The pink. Is this natural?”
Penny blinked, clearly thrown by the compliment. “The pink? No, sir. I dye it.”
“Ah, but the bone structure, the eyes—these are natural. Bellissimo.” Vicente turned back to me, reaching out expectantly. “Your hands. May I?”
I hesitated only a moment before offering my hand. Vicente took it gently, examining it with professional interest.
“Yes, yes.” He traced one finger along my palm. “The calluses here, from the leather. The slight staining—oak bark tannin? And this scar—” He touched a thin white line along my thumb. “Cutting knife slipped?”
“Utility knife,” I admitted. “When I was sixteen and thought I knew better than my grandfather’s safety rules.”
Vicente chuckled, releasing my hand. “Youth always thinks it knows better. Your grandfather, he would have scolded you, yes? But also tended the wound carefully.”
“He did both,” I said, the memory eliciting a smile and a wistful tug in my chest. “At the same time.”
“This is how we learn.” Vicente signaled our server, who appeared instantly. “These young people are my guests. Bring their food here, please. And fresh espresso for all.”
“Right away, Mr. Antonelli.”
I started to protest, but Vicente waved it off. “You came to ask about Thomas. We should talk properly, not shout across the restaurant.”
Our server returned quickly with our plates—my puttanesca looking absolutely perfect, Penny’s carbonara steaming and aromatic. Three cups of espresso followed, served in delicate porcelain.
“Please, eat,” Vicente encouraged. “The puttanesca is very good today. The chef made the sauce herself this morning.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The first bite was heaven—salty olives, briny capers, perfectly cooked pasta. Exactly what I’d been craving.
“Oh my god,” I mumbled around the mouthful. “Penny, this is exactly what the baby wanted.”
The words were out before I thought about them. Penny’s eyes went wide, his fork frozen mid-air above his carbonara. Vicente’s expression shifted, sharp intelligence flickering across his grandfatherly features.
“The baby?” he repeated softly. Then his gaze dropped to my stomach, lingering for just a moment before returning to my face. Understanding dawned in his dark eyes. “Ah, congratulazioni! Your alpha, he is proud, yes?”
My hand moved instinctively to my abdomen. “Yes. Very proud.”
“This is good.” Vicente’s smile turned nostalgic.
“My Lucia, when she carried our first son, she craved puttanesca exactly like this. Extra olives, extra capers, could not get enough. I learned to make it myself just to keep her satisfied.” Something sad crossed his expression.
“She has been gone twenty years now, but I still remember. You treasure these moments, capisce? Even the difficult ones.”
“I will,” I said softly.
“But enough sentiment.” Vicente sipped his espresso. “You came to ask about Thomas.”
I nodded slowly.
“Si.” Vicente’s expression grew somber. “Thomas was bellissimo too. He was a talented architect and a kind soul. He saw the good in people, even when perhaps he should not have.”
He paused.
“The Sheriff said you were involved in the financial aspects and in construction for the project,” I ventured carefully.
Penny’s foot connected with my shin beneath the table. A warning.
“The preservation guidelines provided excellent cover for moving money through legitimate construction channels. Multiple contractors, multiple sites, renovation budgets that could be… flexible,” Vicente continued, taking another sip of his espresso.
“Thomas was unfortunate to be so meticoloso. He saw patterns in the accounting that others missed. The statute of limitations expired decades ago, capisce? I speak of history now, not current crimes.”
The casual admission should have been intimidating. Instead, Vicente’s manner remained almost avuncular.
I set down my fork carefully. “Did you kill him?”
Penny made a small sound of distress, but I kept my eyes locked on Vicente’s face.
“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “This was before I met my Lucia, you see? I would have given Thomas anything he desired. Protection, opportunities, a different life in Chicago or New York, far from small-town whispers.”
Something wistful crossed his expression. “But his heart belonged to Richard Fairfax. I understood this. Respected it, even when it hurt. L’amore non si comanda.”
“You cared about him,” I said quietly.