Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Luca
The kitchen is quiet this morning. Not silent—quiet.
The kind of quiet that you only feel in a big house with no one in it. The Sub-Zero kicks in, the espresso machine ticks as it cools, and the breeze drifts in through the open double doors leading out to the garden.
Stone counters, long island, eight-burner range I haven’t touched since coming home. The copper pans that Carlotta picked out still hang over the prep sink. The housekeeper has kept everything shiny and polished, and everything is almost exactly the same as when I last saw the kitchen.
I pull a single shot from the machine and watch the crema settle.
It’s bitter and hot and good. On the island, an iPad sits propped against a small stand.
Eleven years ago, you had to poke at screens like Whac-A-Mole.
Now it takes a swipe and a glance, and it opens to exactly where I left it—news, numbers, a summary of the overnight feed.
I like it. It’s fast. Sure, it can be frustrating at times to have to re-learn the world that went on without me.
But you stay alive by staying current, and that includes new technologies.
I swipe through headlines. Atlantic City. New York. A court calendar. I flag three things to send to Giovanni later and keep reading.
Footsteps echo down the hall. A second later, Maria appears in the doorway with Antonio behind her. “Mr. Antonio is here.”
“Thank you, Maria,” I say.
Antonio steps past her with a folder under his arm, jacket open, tie straight. He kisses the air by my cheek out of habit and sets the folder on the island.
“Morning,” he says.
“You want one?” I lift the demitasse.
He glances at the machine. “If it’s already hot.”
“It’s always hot.” I pull a shot and slide it to him. He drinks without sugar.
He nods at the iPad on the table where I was sitting. “You figuring that thing out?”
“I am,” I say. “It’s handy.”
He taps the folder. “Got some news.”
I sit down at the table and pick up my espresso. “Talk.”
“Heads-up from our people,” he says. “Marshals ran a full sweep on the prosecutor last night. Apartment, car, garage. They also tightened procedures on her office floor and added additional security rotations to the building.”
I take a slow drink. “Define ‘tightened.’”
“Home first,” he says, opening the folder. “Blinds, privacy film. New alarms and cameras on the building and parking garage. New router procedure. Package room holds—ID only, and they sweep them. No balcony. She sends updates when she leaves and arrives at work or home.”
“That all?”
“Food too. No outside prep,” he says. “No coffee shops, no takeout. They do the shopping for her. Varying departure and arrival times.”
I let a smile show. Small. “All because I handed her a drink.”
“They don’t like leaks,” he says.
“And her office?” I say.
“Reception briefed—no handoffs, no ‘drop this for her’ nonsense. If someone tries, they call upstairs. Elevator holds if she asks. A plainclothes deputy in the garage during her arrival and departure windows. Out of sight.”
I nod. “Good to know.”
“Also heard they’re staggering your check-ins with pretrial,” he adds. “Not the same times, not the same days. It’s meant to keep everyone guessing.”
I shrug. “They can pick the hours. I’ll make the hours work.”
Antonio closes the folder partway and watches me over the edge. “You look pleased.”
“It’s interesting,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t the plan,” I say. “With the latte. But it’s a nice bonus. Shake up her routine, see what falls off the table.”
“They’re locking it down instead.”
“Which wouldn’t be good if I were really planning something,” I say, sipping my drink.
“No plans for the prosecutor?” Antonio asks.
I tighten my fingers around the cup, suddenly irritated for a reason I can’t explain. I force myself to set it back on the saucer gently.
“Do I have a reason to?”
“Well, she is trying to lock you back up,” Antonio offers.
The bitterness in my mouth now has nothing to do with the espresso.
“She’s doing her job,” I say simply.
“Yes, and her job is to put you back in prison,” Antonio says.
“Prosecutors aren’t worth the time,” I say. “You take one down, there’s always another to take her place.”
Antonio tilts his head. “Then what is?”
“Money. Leverage.” I pick up my cup again, but don’t drink just yet. “The one who put me in a cage and the one who bought it.”
I think again of my precious daughter and her husband.
“And the prosecutor?” Antonio asks.
“She’s weather, Antonio,” I say absently. “You don’t waste bullets on rain.”
He pauses a moment. “And if not everyone feels that way?”
My gaze sharpens on him, hard and unrelenting. “You make sure they do. No contact, no messages, no gifts, no friends-of-friends. We don’t go near the café across from the office. That door is closed.”
He nods once. “Understood.”
“If she comes at us sideways, we answer in court,” I add. “On paper. Roberto’s lane.”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Antonio says dryly.
“You joke, but he will be,” I say. “On this, we go by the book. Nobody touches her. No one circles her building. Anyone tries to be clever, I deal with them personally.”
I lean forward and press my finger into the table. “I’ve been away for a while, so it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten my hands dirty. No telling what I’ll do to the first person who crosses me.”
Antonio doesn’t blink.
“I’ll say it exactly,” he replies. “No contact. No cute. If anyone wants to be a cowboy, I’ll break his hand before you have to.”
“Good,” I say. “Start with Vito. He gets the talk twice.”
“He’s on a run with Giovanni,” Antonio says. “Contracts and inventory. I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
“Nico?” I ask.
And right on time, a shadow blocks the sunlight streaming in through the open doors.
Nico steps into the doorway, towel over his shoulder, hair still damp from a shower in the guest house, where he lives.
He’s the only one who stayed. Vito and Caterina moved out after their mother died.
Said the house felt too big, too empty. And now that I’m back, they have their own lives, their own homes.
I told them I understood. I did. I do. It doesn’t make it any less lonely sitting in the kitchen alone in the mornings.
“Papà. Zio,” he says as he walks in.
“Come here,” I tell him. “You’re just in time.”
He comes to the island, eyes moving once over the folder, then to me. He doesn’t ask what he missed. He waits.
“The prosecutor is on lockdown,” I explain. “Marshals boxed her up.”
Nico nods. “Because of the coffee.”
“It was a latte,” I say. “But yes.”
“Was that the plan?” Nico looks at me.
I shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t, but it worked out.”
“And the plan now?” he asks.
It’s what I love about Nico. He never crowds the air with questions. He asks what he needs to ask and then leaves space for the answer.
“Nothing at the moment,” Antonio says. “She’s off limits. Anyone tries anything, they answer to your father. Not even a whisper in her direction.”
Nico winces. “Anyone tell Vito yet?”
“Not yet,” I say.
Antonio shakes his head. “Giovanni’s got him running contracts. I’ll handle it when he’s back.”
“Make sure he hears it twice,” I warn.
Antonio drains the rest of his cup and sets it down. “I’ll go do that right now, I think.”
He gets up and takes the cup to the sink, ruffling Nico’s damp hair on the way.
Nico ducks his head with a small smile. Even that is rare, so I appreciate it when I see it.
“I’ll let you know if there are any more updates, yeah?” Antonio says on his way out of the kitchen.
Once he’s gone, Nico turns to me. “Where do you want me?”
“Nowhere near a camera. You make sure my rules are being followed. Eyes only,” I say. “No spooks, no tails. Not even a shadow.”
He nods.
“If anything changes, you tell me same day.”
“Same day,” he repeats. “Got it.”
“And keep Vito away from her,” I add. “He shows his face anywhere near her, I put him on a plane to Naples to visit Zia, and he picks tomatoes for her all summer.”
Nico almost smiles. “He hates Naples, and he thinks Zia’s house smells like a wheel of old cheese.”
“Zia’s house does smell like a wheel of old cheese,” I say, thinking about the last time I visited Carlotta’s sister nearly thirteen years ago.
We go silent for a moment.
“You, uh, want breakfast? I could bring Maria in here to cook something for you,” I ask. He hesitates, and I hear myself fill the space with words I don’t need. “Maria can do eggs. Or a sandwich. Whatever.”
“I’m good,” he says. “Maybe another time. I’ve got lunch plans.”
“With a… a woman?” I try to make it sound lighter than I feel.
“A girl?” It comes out lighter than I feel.
His ears go a little pink. “Yeah. A woman.”
I nod like that’s normal conversation we always have. It isn’t. I don’t know her name. I don’t know where he met her, what she does, what she likes. And he doesn’t offer the information.
Eleven years can make strangers out of your own blood.
“Good,” I say. “Enjoy.”
He shifts the towel from one shoulder to the other. “I will.”
Silence settles. Not awkward, just unfamiliar.
There was a time when this room never shut up.
Vito banging a cabinet door, Caterina stealing food off her brother’s plate, Lucia arguing about shoes, Nico lining toy cars in perfect rows along the grout lines like the tile was a city map.
Carlotta humming and telling me to get out of her kitchen if I wasn’t going to help.
All of it stacked on top of itself until the noise became the sound of home.
Now it’s just the fridge and the breeze.
“You good out there?” I nod toward the pool house because asking about the woman seems like it would be too much. “You can always move back into the main house if you like. I don’t mind,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No thanks. The pool house suits me. My own space. I like it.”
“Fair enough.”
He starts for the patio, then stops and looks back. “You really don’t hate her, huh?”
I know he’s talking about Elena.
“I don’t waste hate on those who don’t deserve it,” I say. “This isn’t mercy. It’s math. Touching her costs more than it buys. We don’t pay bad prices.”
“She won’t scare easy,” he says.
“I know.”
“You respect that.”
“I do,” I say simply.
Nico gives the smallest nod and walks out.
I sit at the desk, looking at the file Antonio left behind. Flipping it open to a picture of Elena’s face, I wonder briefly if they have any protections on her phone.