26. Chapter 20
Dashiell
I am not ashamed to admit that I’m pretty fucking terrified to meet Lorenzo’s family. And not in your typical “meeting your boyfriend’s family” terror. Because my (fake) boyfriend’s family is one of the most powerful organized crime syndicates in the country. Jesus. What have I gotten myself into?
Paloma is nice, though, if a bit frightening in an “I’ll serve you delicious aperitifs, but I also have a hitman on speed dial” way.
Can’t wait to meet the brother!
Giovanni Diamante is in the foyer, handing his coat to Stefano.
This is the first time I’ve seen him in person, and I immediately clock the similarities between him and Lorenzo.
He’s older, and has a wider jaw and grayer hair that’s combed to precision.
His eyes are tired, speaking to whatever work he has to do as Don.
I try not to glare at him, knowing that he might be the one who’s threatened me, threatened my family.
“You must be the famous Dashiell,” he says when he sees me, stepping forward to shake my hand in a crushing grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?” I ask, glancing at Lorenzo. Is Lorenzo talking about me? Part of me wants to be flattered, while the other part of me is trying desperately not to freak out. Especially since we’ve come here suspecting that Giovanni might be a murderer and an arsonist.
Cheers!
“He’s just giving you a hard time,” Lorenzo says, laying a heavy, protective hand on my shoulder.
“Dinner,” Paloma says, gesturing down the hall. “Let’s sit.”
The dining room, like the rest of the house, feels like a little slice of the Mediterranean. A long table of dark wood, big enough for twelve but set for four. Iron candlesticks down the center dripping with pale wax. A tapestry on one wall, something old and faded and beautifully pastoral.
It smells of garlic and lemon and spiced meats, so delicious that my stomach immediately threatens to growl.
A man in a white chef’s coat appears once we’ve settled into our chairs.
He nods to Paloma first, then the rest of the table.
“Signora. Tonight we will start with caponata. Eggplant, celery, olives, capers, and just a dash of vinegar to wake up the flavors. Then arancini—rice, ragù, mozzarella in the center. And the main course is a branzino, whole roasted, with fennel and lemon. And, of course, my signature cannoli for dessert.”
Lorenzo, seated next to me, leans over and whispers, “You haven’t lived until you’ve had Renato’s cannoli.”
I whisper back, “Is cannoli a euphemism?”
Lorenzo kicks me lightly under the table and I hide a grin. Good to know we can still joke together, even after whatever the fuck happened between us at his apartment.
He sucked your finger, I think.
“Grazie, Renato,” Paloma says.
“Would you like to sample the wines, Signora?”
“No, Renato. I trust your judgment. Just make it something good for our guest.”
The caponata is really good—sweet and savory at the same time, the eggplant so soft that it falls apart beneath the touch of a fork. I compliment it, and Paloma smiles softly.
“Renato has been with the family since before Lorenzo was born.” Her smile widens. “I would’ve left Massimo before I gave up that man’s cooking.”
“Mother!” Lorenzo says.
“I’m joking, of course.”
Giovanni doesn’t touch his caponata. Seated across from me, his gaze hardly leaves me, and I try not to squirm in discomfort. “I hear you’re quite the hero,” he says at last. “Saving my brother from the fire and all.”
“I don’t know about a hero,” I demur. “As I told your mother, I’m just doing my job.”
“Hm. But our father…you couldn’t save him.”
My gut clenches, cold and sickly. Lorenzo’s knee presses against mine beneath the table. “We did our best,” I say quietly.
“Giovanni,” Paloma says disapprovingly, and then fires something off in rapid Sicilian.
“My apologies,” Giovanni says to me. “I wasn’t there that night, of course. I know how terrible it must have been. But…I am fascinated by this chance to hear it from your perspective.”
Lorenzo puts down his fork. “Is this an appropriate conversation for dinner?”
But this is what we want, isn’t it? This is affirming our theory, right? Or, at least, it might. Giovanni, asking questions about that night, wanting to see if I remember anything… It certainly fits with our theory that he might be to blame and is fishing to see what I know.
“I don’t mind,” I say, pressing my knee back against Lorenzo’s, trying to tell him telepathically that I’m okay. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you remember,” Giovanni says. “As I said, I wasn’t there. I…I feel that I missed out on my father’s last moments.” Grief creases his face—is it a performance, or is it genuine? It certainly looks genuine.
Renato’s staff clears the dishes from the first course and begins laying out the second.
I glance at Paloma. “May I share, Signora?”
She seems to appreciate my deference. “It may do us all some good to hear your side,” she admits.
Nodding once, I begin my story. “We got the call around seven-thirty. By the time we arrived, the fire had already spread pretty far. Your mother met us on the lawn and told us that your father and Lorenzo were still inside. We went in through the front and found Lorenzo trying to break into your father’s study.
I got him out while my captain and another firefighter got Massimo. ”
Giovanni smiles mirthlessly. “My brother has this theory that the fire was intentional. An arson. You’re the expert here. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Giovanni!” Paloma says.
“It’s okay,” I interject. “No, nothing unusual. Of course, it was pretty chaotic. When you go into a situation like that, all you’re thinking about is how many souls you can save.”
Giovanni holds my gaze just a beat too long. Then, when he smiles, it’s a warm, almost genuine smile. “Of course,” he says. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to make you relive something that was surely very painful.”
The arancini arrive, all golden and hot, cracking open under my fork to spill fragrant ragù and melted mozzarella. Jesus Christ. I almost wish I were dating Lorenzo for the food alone—I’d give anything to regularly have meals like this prepared by a private chef.
While we eat, Paloma steers the conversation into lighter territory, asking about my family, my grandmother, and whether or not firefighters actually do scandalous calendars.
That gets a laugh from all of us, and I say that no, not for a while, but Vinnie has been threatening to organize one again, saying if no one else will pose he’ll do it for every month.
Throughout the meal, I can’t get a read on Giovanni. One moment, he seems suspicious. The next, he’s just my fake boyfriend’s older brother.
Maybe we were wrong about him, I think. Maybe Lorenzo misinterpreted what Reiner told him. By the time the branzino arrives—whole, silver-skinned and flaky—I finally start to relax and enjoy myself.
That’s when it happens.
One of the candles gutters out, its wick curled in on itself. Without missing a beat, Giovanni reaches for the candle, straightens the wick, and then produces a matchbook from his pocket. He strikes a match and relights the candle.
Then he goes back to eating as if nothing happened.
But against my thigh, I feel Lorenzo’s leg stiffen.
I dig into my branzino, gripping my fork to hide my shaking hands.
Whatever sense of relaxation and comfort I had when the branzino was served vanishes for the rest of the meal.
I eat my cannoli as quick as I can—Lorenzo was right, they’re easily the best thing I’ve ever tasted—and when Paloma offers us espresso to end the night, Lorenzo begs off, saying that it’s important for me to get to bed at a reasonable time considering my job.
When we’re in the car—Wolfe was waiting for us at the curb—I turn to Lorenzo. “You noticed that, too, didn’t you?”
He nods once. “I did.” Then he rubs his face. “Fuck.”
I stare out the window at the nice houses passing by. “I don’t want to go back to the apartment, not yet,” I murmur.
Lorenzo scoffs quietly. “Where else would you go?”
“I want to go out.”
“It’s a Monday.”
“Basically my weekend. I have today and tomorrow off. I’m twenty-two and I want to go out.
” I pull out my phone. For days I’ve been ignoring texts from, Kenny, who’s been wanting to go out.
We used to go out all the time together, especially once he started dancing at nightclubs, and I feel bad for ignoring him.
“My friend’s been wanting to go out. I want to make it happen. ”
The train of thought shifts tracks, away from all the uncertainty of who’s hunting me, of the possibility of an arsonist-murderer being on my trail, and back to what happened in the apartment earlier today, back to the black lacy thong I’m wearing under my suit.
“You could come with us,” I say to Lorenzo, suddenly hopeful. Maybe if he sees me out at a club, he’ll realize that I’m not a kid, and that I do know what I want. “Come on, you should come with us!”
“Fine. But I get to pick the venue.”