Chapter 5
Allegra
I t’s two days later and my sisters have finally made time in their schedule to talk with me about our plans for the winery. Money is an issue—which I totally get. There’s none coming in, at the moment. And it’ll be next Spring—at the very, very earliest—before we have any wine to sell. And that’s only if Bianca decides to make a Rosé, which so far she’s been reluctant to commit to.
Rosa doesn’t like the idea of investing too much (read any) of our money on nonessentials until the winery is earning money back. She’s coming off a season of repeated crises and unexpected expenses and that, not surprisingly, has made her cautious.
Bianca doesn’t think it’s smart to sacrifice the quality of our wines for speed. Our wines—her wines, really—are what we’re counting on to make our reputation. And, like they say, you don’t get a second chance to make a good first impression.
I don’t disagree with either of them, but there have to be at least a few things we can do now to start bringing in money and getting people excited about our brand.
So far, they haven’t liked any of the ideas I’ve suggested.
“How about this,” I say. “I read about this winery in Texas that has a rhinoceros on its grounds. And they’re starting a rhino preserve there as well?—”
“Where on the winery grounds?” Bianca asks, staring at me above the rim of her coffee cup. “I assume they don’t keep it in the vineyards?”
“I don’t know where, exactly,” I say, but then Rosa interrupts.
“Why? What does a rhinoceros have to do with making wine?”
“I don’t think it does. I think they have a partnership with a winery in South Africa. Maybe they did an exchange and sent them some longhorns. Are longhorns endangered?”
“They’re domestic,” Bianca tells me. “So probably not. But aren’t we getting off topic? What does any of this have to do with us?”
“I just think it could be cool if we did something like that.”
“We are not getting a rhinoceros,” Rosa says firmly.
“I didn’t mean we should get a rhino—exactly. After all, that’s already been done. I was thinking something native to here.”
“Like what?” Rosa presses. “Raccoons? Deer?”
“No!” Bianca’s mouth drops open. She glares at Rosa. “Deer? Are you kidding?”
“Oh, right,” Rosa nods. “Never mind. Bad idea.”
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of wild mustangs,” I tell them. “They’re picturesque, American…”
“They’re not exactly native to Napa,” Rosa says. “So, I’m not getting the connection.”
“I don’t know, but they have some in Golden Gate Park, so there must be something.”
“Strictly speaking,” Bianca points out, “Horses aren’t even native to the Americas.”
“Bison?” I throw out in desperation.
“Also, not native to Napa,” Rosa replies.
“I just want to tell you both that I am categorically opposed to the idea of our intentionally bringing any large, voracious herbivores onto the property,” Bianca says suddenly. “I don’t care where they’re from. It’s a terrible idea.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling frustrated. “You know what? Maybe it doesn’t even have to be wildlife. Or herbivores. How about a dog rescue?”
“Why?” Bianca whines.
“What kind of dog rescue?” Rosa wants to know.
“Okay, d’you remember that TV show from a few years back,” I ask. “The one that had ex-cons caring for pit bulls? What if we?—”
“In Napa ?” They say in tandem, not even letting me finish the thought.
“So, I guess that’s a no?”
“Look, people come here to indulge themselves,” Rosa points out. “To get spoiled. Not to think about unpleasant facts of life. I think a doggie day spa would be a much better fit. People could drop their dogs off while they’re drinking wine, give their pups a chance to get out of the Teslas for a while.”
“Why Teslas?” I ask, getting distracted.
“They have a dog setting,” Rosa replies with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Have you never seen one? You can roll up your windows and walk away and the car will manage the AC to keep the doggos comfortable.”
“That is cool,” Bianca says. “No pun intended, but how much space will something like that take up? I don’t know how big that Texas winery you were talking about is, Legs, but we’re a very small winery. We need all the real estate we can get for the vines. I don’t see how we can afford to give up the kind of space that a nature preserve, or a dog spa, or a petting zoo would require.”
“Petting zoo?” Rosa frowns at her. “Who suggested that?”
“Oh, you don’t think she was about to?” Bianca replies. “Please.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Scratch all the domestic animals then, too. Maybe we could do something with birds—they’re already here, so that wouldn’t take up any space at all.”
“Birds are as bad as deer, aren’t they?” Rosa asks.
“Yes!” Bianca gets up and pours herself another cup of coffee. “We really need to end this conversation before I have an anxiety attack.”
“No, listen,” I tell her. “You’ll like this. I’m talking about raptors. If we could entice a mating pair of some type of raptor to build their nest somewhere on the grounds, that would be good, right?”
“Oh.” Bianca sits back down and nods. “Okay, yes. That would make a difference.”
“Make a difference how?” Rosa asks. “And what are we supposed to be doing with these raptors, anyway?”
“They would actually help keep the rodent population in check,” Bianca explains. “And prey on the birds who eat our grapes. It’s actually kind of genius.”
“And we wouldn’t be doing anything,” I add. “That’s the best part. Other than putting up cameras and livestreaming the footage so everyone can see what they’re up to.”
“Cameras?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “There are raptor cams set up all over California. There are several in the Bay Area that do falcons—Berkeley, San Jose, Alcatraz—and another in San Francisco for ospreys. And there’s at least one place in SoCal that monitors barn owls.”
“So, all we’d need to do is put up a few cameras and we’re done?”
“We probably only need one camera,” I tell her, getting excited. “At least to start.”
Have I finally hit on something they both actually like and are open to? Halleluiah! “You focus the camera on the nest, so people can watch online as the eggs hatch, and the babies grow up. Once they fledge, all their fans will want to come here to watch them flying around. And, when they’re here, we sell them wine. And branded merchandise, or whatever. It’s kind of a shame Jake’s parents didn’t think of that because having birds as brand ambassadors for a winery called Take Flight would have been a perfect fit.”
“Oh,” Bianca says suddenly. “That’s why it sounds so familiar. Jansen’s already doing it. So maybe we can ask him for tips?”
“He…what?” I ask as my heart drops.
“Yeah, can you believe it? His vineyard manager suggested it. You should go see it. He bought this state-of-the-art barn owl nest box. It came with its own solar powered, Wi-Fi camera. I don’t know if he’s streaming it though. He should do that, right?”
“Yeah, totally,” I say, crossing another great idea off my list. “I mean, assuming there’s anything to stream. But if he’s already got a nest box set up, we wouldn’t want to put up another one this close.”
“Oh, because the birds are territorial, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I glance through my list.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Rosa observes. “I thought we were onto something there.”
I nod agreement. Do I even want to suggest we build a habitat for native butterflies and other pollinators? No, I sure don’t. I don’t think I can take any more rejection at the moment. I scribble some notes regarding other ideas I need to research—artwork, food trucks, bike tours, picnics. All of which have the advantage that I can get started now and don’t have to wait for Spring.
“So, are we done?” Rosa asks. “Or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”
“Two things actually,” I say. “Bee, have you given any more thought to the idea of hosting barrel tastings over the winter? I know it’s premature, but almost no one does it, so it will be unique.”
“I guess it’ll be okay,” she tells me. “But only occasionally. It can’t become a regular thing. And I’d want to be on hand to supervise. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but…”
“I know. The wine is your baby.” I nod politely, and refrain from pointing out that in my last steady job I conducted barrel tastings all on my own, without supervision. All. The. Time. “What about the Rosé?”
Rosa’s eyebrows rise. “Do we have a Rosé?” she asks Bianca. “We don’t, do we?”
Bianca shakes her head. “Not at this point. But Legs wants me to release a blend in the Spring and…I’m thinking about it.” She turns to me and adds, “I can’t make a decision on that until I see how everything’s tasting in the Spring.”
“All right,” I say. “Good enough.” But is it really? If she decides against it, it’s going to be another year, or maybe two before we have any wines to sell—or taste. And what am I supposed to do until then?
The minute I walk through the door of the Golden Cougar Bar and Grill I’m greeted by a chorus of familiar voices.
“Hey, look who’s back!”
“Allegra?”
“Legs! Over here!”
It’s Saturday night. My sisters and their plus-ones had all gone off to attend a wedding earlier in the day, leaving me with nothing to do but rattle around the empty house feeling very Kevin McAllister-esque.
Unlike Kevin, however, I’m an adult with access to both money and a car so there was no reason for me to stay home alone if I didn’t want to, which I very much did not. So, I’d dressed up as much as I could—putting on a light, summer dress that’s probably too thin for October, and some rando jacket I’d found hanging in the hall closet—and headed downtown in search of food, companionship, maybe a little adult entertainment, and also to take a break from all the family tension I’d been feeling.
So of course I end up running straight into my cousins. Great. Just perfect.
“Hey, fam,” I say, feeling a little wary as I approach their table. “What’s up? It’s been a minute.” I’m honestly not sure what to expect. I haven’t seen them in years and, as I recall it, we hadn’t exactly parted as friends. Not that I ever thought of them as friends, exactly, anyway. They’re all older than me—enough so that it made a difference. Gianni’s the youngest and he’s the same age as Rosa…or I dunno, maybe a little younger? Still. He’s definitely older than Bianca, so…
Not that any of it matters anymore. Apparently. It’s all water under a bridge or something like it, at least if the hugs and smiles I’m greeted with are anything to go by.
I join them at their table where they’ve apparently ordered “one of everything” off the happy hour bar menu. I mean, seriously? Why not just order a meal?
They’ve got crab cakes and hot wings, short rib tacos, mac and cheese arancini, grilled artichokes, roasted Mexican street corn riblets, barbecued oysters, caprese salad, shishito peppers, and an entire charcuterie platter including cold cuts, baked brie and an assortment of olives… I’m honestly not sure where they’re planning on putting it all. And in a way, I’m doing them a favor by joining their party and taking some of that food off their hands.
I accept a glass of wine from one of the several bottles they’re working their way through (it’s a decent enough Meritage from a winery whose name I don’t immediately recognize) and we catch up. By which I mean that I give them a heavily redacted version of what I’ve been up to in Europe (Vitto is particularly interested in hearing about my work aboard the cruise ship) and they fill me in on what’s been happening since I’ve been gone, and all the local gossip.
I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying myself. They’re charming and funny and seem genuinely happy to see me. The Cougar is loud and crowded—but not in a rowdy sort of way. Servers bustle about the space, taking orders and delivering delicious looking food. Everything smells amazing; and it tastes even better.
If I’d stayed at home instead of spending the last few years in Europe, this would probably have been my hang-out. Or maybe not. Granted, I can’t see all of the room, but from where I’m sitting, I only see a few familiar faces—and most of those are gathered around the table with me.
“So, level with me,” I say at last—finally addressing the elephant in the room. “What exactly went on here this summer? I mean, the real story. Because some of the stuff I’ve heard…” I trail off, leaving the sentence unfinished because I don’t know how to finish it.
If you must know, I don’t really want to believe half of what I’ve heard. I’m hoping to learn that my sisters have been exaggerating how bad it’s been. Except…I don’t really want to think that either. I mean, would you want to learn that your sisters—and business partners—are paranoid and delusional? No, I think not.
Leo shrugs. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but…yeah, it’s been rough. Pops… Well. In a nutshell, he hasn’t been handling things well.”
“No,” Vitto agrees. “Not at all.
“I think he felt betrayed,” Leo continues. “And, honestly? I think he still does. So, I guess you could say he’s been acting out.”
“ We’re okay, though,” Gianni says, circling his hand in a gesture to encompass the entire table. “I just want to be clear about that. We’re not mad at you or your sisters at all.”
“Ohhkay?” I reply, feeling the wariness creep back in. Because why would he bother to deny something I hadn’t even hinted at?
“I’m just saying,” Gianni continues. “Because I think Bianca was worried that was the case. But it’s not.”
“Good to know.”
“But,” Vitto adds, “It was a wake-up call; that’s for certain. We weren’t expecting it.”
“For real,” Gianni sighs.
“It was a shock. And it’s definitely forced us to think more about our own situations, and… I don’t know….maybe what we want our futures to look like? And how we can get there?”
“Right,” Leo agrees. “Because this ain’t it. And if things don’t change?—”
“Which we know they won’t,” Gianni insists, as he tops off my glass. “Because Dad is incapable of letting go of the reins or even loosening his grip on them to even the slightest degree.”
“Which…yes, I agree, is very unlikely to happen,” Leo continues undeterred. “Which means we all have to make other plans. Because I don’t think any of us—” He pauses to look at his brothers for confirmation. “Feel like waiting another ten, twenty, maybe thirty years to start living our own lives, making our own decisions.”
“Or for the chance to finally inherit a failing winery that could have been saved if we’d have been allowed get involved now,” Vitto finishes. “ Before he runs it entirely into the ground.”
“Okay, wait a minute,” I say frowning at them. “Is Belmonte in trouble? Because this is the first I’m hearing about it. And I thought you guys were involved. Vitto, aren’t you making wine for Belmonte?” I’m pretty sure that’s what Bianca had said.
“Well, there’s involved, and then there’s involved ,” Gianni says in answer. “We’re all working there, sure. But, as Rosa can tell you, that doesn’t mean we’re making any of the big decisions. At least, not like you and your sisters are doing at Caparelli.”
I shove an arancini in my mouth to keep from blurting out the truth—that no one’s letting me make any important decisions either—and immediately get distracted by the creamy, cheesy, crispy goodness. Yum.
“I mean, sure. If you wanna be technical about it,” Vitto says. “I do make most of our wine. But what kind of wine am I making? It’s not the kind of wine I want to make; that’s for sure. I’m making the wines Dad wants me to make, using only the grapes Dad wants me to use, and I’m only allowed to utilize the methods, equipment, and timelines that he approves of. God only knows what he thinks would happen if he were to give any of us a say in any of it. It’s like he thinks he’s the only one capable of making good decisions.”
“Which would be a lot easier to accept if his decisions were even half as good as he thinks they are,” Gianni says—earning himself some serious side-eyes from both brothers. Although I notice they don’t disagree.
Leo sighs. “Look, we’ve talked about this. And no, the winery isn’t in trouble—yet. But some of Pops actions this summer have put us in a pretty bad position—with the community, the Sheriff’s Department, the Commissioner’s Office, the Vintner’s Association…”
“Not to mention the ABC,” Vitto agrees.
“The problem,” Leo continues. “Or one of them, anyway—is that Belmonte was never supposed to be Geno’s responsibility. He wasn’t groomed for it. He doesn’t have a degree in Enology or Viticulture—or anything else that would’ve helped him. He took over because he had to. And he started making all the decisions because, at the time, there was no one more capable—or willing—to make them.
“I think it’s more habit now than anything else. But since that business with Nonna’s will…it’s like he’s lost confidence. Like he thinks he has to prove himself all over again.”
I almost ask Leo what he’s talking about. Who was supposed to be responsible for running the family business if it wasn’t Geno? But then I remember. My Uncle Leo—Mama’s older brother who no one ever talks about. He died when we were all just kids, so long ago that I can’t be sure, from this distance, whether the shadowy figure from my memories is him, or someone else.
“And I get it, you know? He feels like he’s being disrespected,” Leo (that’s Cousin Leo, obvs—not my uncle’s ghost) says now. “He thinks we should all be more appreciative of the fact that he supported the entire family for all these years, that he’s the one who’s kept the business going. It also doesn’t help that none of us realized, until recently, that he didn’t always make the best decisions.”
“Speak for yourself,” Vitto grumbles.
“Okay fine. But still—it’s only in the last few months that we’ve spoken up about it.”
Gianni shakes his head. “Look. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Lee, but…what’s the reality? Is it that he always made such bad decisions, and we just failed to notice, or is this chronic lapse in judgment something new?”
“Shit. Is this the senile thing again?” Leo scowls at him. “Because I still think that’s ageist on your part.”
“It’s only ageism if I’m wrong,” Gianni shoots back. He slants a look in my direction and then says, “And, not for nothing but, given all the other shit he’s been pulling, I can’t be the only one who finds it strange that Dad hasn’t really leaned into the idea that Nonna wasn’t of sound mind either when she made her will.”
My mouth drops open. “What? No!”
Leo and Vitto say nothing. Gianni studies their expression and then nods—as though they’d confirmed his suspicions. “Uh-huh. Exactly. So, what I’m thinking is that maybe he is losing it—and he knows it—and he’s trying not to draw attention to that fact. Which is what would happen if he started pointing that particular finger in someone else’s direction. You know?”
“What the what?” Vitto glances at me and Leo and says, “Do either of you understand what he just said?”
Leo sighs. “I think what he means is that people in glass houses might wanna think twice before they start throwing stones.”
“Exactly,” Gianni agrees. “Especially if he’s afraid we’re gonna turn around and do the same to him. Which we absolutely should, if that’s the case.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know about the rest of what you just said, Gee, but Geno has to realize no one’s going to take that claim seriously. How long was Nonna supposed to be incompetent? She put her plan for Caparelli in place years ago—I think someone would have noticed if she’d been losing it for the past ten years.”
Three heads swivel in my direction. Three sets of eyes narrow suspiciously.
“What did you say?”
“Ten …years ? Where’d that come from?”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait wait. Are you saying you knew about this? Before the will was read?”
Uh-oh. Did I just say the quiet part out loud? “Uh…maybe? I mean, I didn’t know exactly what was in her will, but she’d talked about it. Didn’t she?”
“Not to us!”
“Let’s just be clear, okay? You’re saying you weren’t surprised to learn she’d left Caparelli to you and your sisters.”
“Not completely, no.”
“And it never occurred to you to…I dunno… tell any of us ?”
“Yeah. For real! What the fuck, Legs?”
They’re not being particularly quiet. I glance around and notice that at least a few people at nearby tables appear to be listening in on our conversation.
I lean in and lower my voice. “Who did you want me to tell?” I whisper-shout. “I was out of the country until just recently, in case nobody happened to notice. How should I know what conversations you all did or didn’t have while I was gone? I figured it was just one of those things that everyone knew, but no one wanted to talk about.”
“That’s…actually a fair point,” Vitto concedes after an awkward moment of silence. “There are a lot of things like that, aren’t there? Things the whole family knows, but which are never discussed.”
“You’re not wrong,” Gianni agrees ruefully.
Even Leo reluctantly nods. “No, you’re not. ‘We’ll never tell’ might as well be the family motto.”
“We should get matching tattoos,” I say, before anyone else can suggest it.
But even as they’re agreeing with me, I find myself wondering. How much of what I just said is true? And was that really the only reason I never said anything? Memories surface. I remember I was home the day James Davenport came to the house to talk to Nonna about the new will she wanted him to make for her. I remember how he’d argued with her, advocating for greater transparency. And then how he’d questioned me , asking what I thought of my grandmother’s plan, and which of us had originally suggested the idea…
“Jimmy, stop badgering the child,” Nonna had scolded. “Do you really think I’m so weak-willed, that I don’t know my own mind? The decision is mine. And the idea for it was mine. If anyone influenced my decision, it was my son. Allegra had nothing to do with it.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Think about it, Carmela. You do want me ‘badgering’ her. Because when—God forbid—the time comes, you want me to be able to testify—under oath, if need be—that I spoke with you both and that I was satisfied that you were acting on your own cognizance. And if I predecease you, my successor will need the records I leave behind to make sure your wishes are carried out. Otherwise ? —”
“Basta,” Nonna said fretfully. “No more. Stop it now. I’ve made my decision, and that’s enough. I don’t want to think about this anymore. It’s too depressing.”
“I know,” Jimmy sighed. “This is hard for you. And you’ve already suffered so much loss. But it’s my job to think about these things for you, cara. There’s a great deal of money involved, after all. And if you don’t think questions of mental soundness and undue influence are going to be raised, you’re fooling yourself.”
So yeah, maybe there had been other reasons why I hadn’t wanted to talk about it—and why I’m wishing I hadn’t said anything about it now. Because of course everyone is going to assume that it was my idea, that I’d somehow manipulated Nonna. And maybe I was also afraid that if anyone found out ahead of time that they’d try and talk her out of it.
“For what it’s worth,” I tell them. “I’m sorry that you were all blindsided. And I understand why Geno in particular would be upset about that. But did he really have to involve the Sheriff’s department and file a bunch of sketchy complaints against my sisters? What’s up with that? That’s low. That doesn’t help anyone.”
Another silence falls over the cousins—deeper and somehow even more awkward than the ones that came before. And I find myself wondering if I’ve somehow stepped in it again?
“You probably should know,” Leo says at last. “That Geno denies having made those calls.”
“Do you believe him?” I ask—this time directing the question at all of them.
No one answers at first. Finally, Leo shrugs and says, “We don’t not believe him.”
I stare blankly at him. What does that even mean?
“Look, someone’s obviously been working over-time trying to cause trouble for you and your sisters,” he continues. “And we know Geno was responsible for some of it. But the complaints…that doesn’t have to be him, too, right? It could be someone else.”
“I…guess?” I’m still confused because who else could it be? And I’m about half a second from asking, when I notice the uncomfortable expressions on all three of my cousins’ faces, the way they’re all very carefully not looking at each other. And I change my mind.
I allow the conversational ball to drop, dip a piece of artichoke into some parmesan aioli and spend a few moments stuffing my face while I consider what it all might mean.
Do they suspect each other? Is that what’s going on here? Are they trying to protect the guilty party? Or do I have it all wrong again? Maybe Geno was the master mind behind the calls, but someone else actually made them. Could my Aunt Janet be involved?
“All we really know, at this point,” Vitto says, picking up the conversational ball. “Is that someone’s been causing problems for Caparelli. Which has caused problems for Belmonte, as well. Would Geno really not have thought of that beforehand? It’s hard to tell. I suppose it’s possible that there never were any calls. Maybe that deputy— Romero, isn’t it? —is making the whole thing up, for some reason of his own. But that doesn’t seem too likely, either, does it?”
“I dunno about that,” Gianni says, shooting a scowl at something—possibly someone—over my shoulder. “You have to admit it’s a little weird the way he keeps popping up. Seems like everywhere any of us go, there he is. Why’s he gotta keep sticking his nose in where it don’t belong? Why can’t he just mind his own business and stay out of our way?”
“Theoretically, it is his business,” Leo says. “He’s in law enforcement. If someone’s making complaints he has to follow up, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?” Gianni claps back. “Why? This shit’s been going on for months. He’s gotta know by now that someone’s just capping on him. Why’s he wanna waste time and taxpayer dollars on this shit? Doesn’t he have anything better to do than follow us around and harass us?”
Leo, seated next to Gianni, glances across the room and shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t look like it, does it?”
“Speaking of which,” I say. “Do any of you happen to know his first name?”
“Whose name?” Gianni asks. “Romero’s? No. Why?”
“No reason.” I shrug. “Just curious.”
“Why are we still talking about this?” Vitto asks as he swallows an oyster. “The food’s getting cold. We should eat.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” Leo points out as he starts building a sandwich, layering meat and cheese and peppers on half a baguette.
I reach for a piece of corn. “I just don’t see how it helps any of us to be on bad terms with the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Sure,” Vitto concedes “Unless the deputy in question is waging some kind of crazy vendetta against our whole family, in which case, all bets are off.”
“Oh, come on,” I’m surprised by how much I hate that idea—like, really, really hate it. “Aren’t you the one who just said that was unlikely? You don’t actually believe that? Do you?”
“I don’t know why not,” Gianni scowls at me. “Personally, I wouldn’t put anything past that bastard. You think it was just coincidence that he stopped you ? That he impounded your car?”
“I, uh…don’t know?” What I didn’t think was that it was common knowledge. Who’s been talking about it? And does everyone know?
“It’s obviously because you’re one of us.”
I feel my cheeks grow warm. And maybe that’s the wine, but I’m touched by the unspoken assumption that I was not at fault, by the feeling of solidarity, the suggestion that they’re on my side.
“I mean, he clearly has it in for us, at this point,” Leo says, agreeing with his brothers. “Not that we haven’t given him cause.”
I shake my head. “I appreciate the support, guys. But—again—don’t you think we should at least try and be on good terms with the Sheriff’s Department?”
“Why? What’s the point?”
“Well, it’s like community outreach. Or public relations. Also, it would be a net good for the family if we could get him off our backs.”
“So go ahead,” Gianni says around a mouthful of chicken wing. “Go ask him his name. If you think it’ll make a difference. I mean, I wouldn’t bet on it changing anything, but I’ll be curious to see how you make out.”
“Well, I will.” I fork up a bite of crab cake and add, “Next time I run into him.”
“Why wait? Do it now.”
“Do what now?” I ask in confusion.
“Are you serious?” Leo glares at his brother.
Gianni ignores Leo’s scowl, gestures behind me and says, “He’s right over there. So, if you really want to talk to him, now’s your chance.”
I turn my head and, sure enough, Deputy Romero is seated at a 2-top on the other side of the restaurant.
Vitto has turned around in his chair to look as well. “Jesus. Are you kidding me?” He shoots his younger brother a scathing look. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why’s that?” Gianni asks, clearly unmoved by his brothers’ censure. “We’re in a public place with plenty of witnesses. Seems ideal to me.”
“Don’t do it, Legs,” Leo says. “I don’t know what you think’s gonna happen, but this guy’s not Miles, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “I barely know Miles. Couldn’t pick him out of a line-up if the deed to Caparelli was on the line.”
“It means he’s not one of us,” Vitto explains, which really doesn’t clarify anything for me.
Miles is one half of Miles and Millie—the couple whose wedding Rosa and Bianca were both invited to. I vaguely remember Millie, who was one of Bianca’s BFFs since…well, forever. But, like I said, I don’t know Miles at all—hence why I’m the only Martinelli sister who was not invited to their wedding, I suppose.
Which begs the question: Is there an “us” that somehow encompasses Miles and me? Because I think not.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell them. “Dealing with difficult customers has been a big part of my job for the past several years. And, as it happens, I’m pretty good at it.”