Chapter Four
GIO
Keira Brennan arrives at Contrada seven minutes early and spends the first three pretending she is not auditing the dining room.
I watch from the kitchen pass. Her gaze moves from the ceiling fixtures to the exits, then to the bar, the wine storage, and the server station. She counts staff without moving her lips.
Gray dress tonight. Dark red hair pinned at the nape. Small gold earrings. No necklace. The wedding ring will change that.
I do not know why the thought irritates me.
“She hates it,” Salvi says beside me.
“She has been here forty seconds.”
“She hated the valet before she entered.”
“The valet parked her car.”
“He adjusted the seat.”
“Then his death will be justified.”
Salvi smiles. Keira’s attention reaches the kitchen opening.
Finds me. Holds.
For one quiet second, the dining room narrows to the distance between us. Then Nonna Lucia steps into Keira’s path and says something that makes my fiancée blink.
I leave the pass. Nonna is wearing black, as always, with a silk scarf tied around her silver hair. At eighty-one, she stands five feet tall and can end conversations with one look.
Keira has already straightened her shoulders. Promising.
“Giovanni,” Nonna says, “she is too thin.”
“Good evening, Nonna.”
“She will freeze in winter.”
“We live in Louisiana.”
“Cold finds women who do not eat.”
Keira glances at me. “Is this the formal medical assessment?”
“No. Formal assessments involve soup.”
Nonna takes Keira’s hands and turns them palm-up.
“Soft.”
“I work with financial records.”
“Numbers do not make calluses?”
“Only emotional ones.”
Nonna looks at her for a long moment. Then she laughs.
The sound carries across the dining room. Several members of my family look up.
Keira notices. She notices everything.
“Sit beside me,” Nonna orders. “Not beside him. He knows how to behave when watched.”
Keira’s mouth curves.
“Useful information.”
Dinner begins with twelve people at a table built for ten.
My father remains at the house, conserving strength for the wedding. Ettore sits near the head of the table. Salvi is across from me. Two aunts, three cousins, Nonna, and enough collective curiosity to qualify as interrogation.
Keira handles the first twenty minutes well. She accepts wine but drinks water.
She tastes every course. She does not ask whether the mushrooms are poisonous when Cousin Matteo makes the joke, which disappoints him.
“What does an auditor do?” Aunt Rosa asks.
“Explains to wealthy people why money disappeared.”
Matteo leans back.
“And if they do not like the explanation?”
“They pay for a second audit and receive the same answer in a larger font.”
Nonna laughs again. I watch Keira lift her water glass.
Her right hand remains relaxed. Her left rests near the bread plate, fingers aligned with the table edge.
She is managing herself. Not frightened.
Prepared. There is a difference.
Matteo does not recognize it.
“So you hunt thieves,” he says.
“I identify irregularities.”
“In my experience, that means thieves.”
“In my experience, thieves dislike accurate nouns.”
He grins.
“You planning to audit Gio?”
The table quiets by degrees. Keira turns toward me.
The light above us catches copper in her hair.
“I assumed that was included in the dowry.”
Salvi coughs into his napkin. Matteo laughs too loudly.
I take a drink of wine.
“Only if you survive the household accounts,” I say.
“Your restaurant margins are suspicious.”
Every conversation at the table stops. Ettore’s fork pauses halfway to his plate.
I set down my glass.
“You reviewed them?”
“Public filings.”
“And?”
“Your labor ratio is too high.”
Aunt Rosa mutters something in Italian. Keira continues.
“Your ingredient costs are inconsistent with the menu pricing, and the private dining revenue is either underreported or allocated across separate entities.”
Matteo looks at me. I should be insulted.
Instead, I am interested.
“Which entity?” I ask.
“Contrada Events LLC.”
“That company handles off-site service.”
“Then your transport costs are low.”
“Our clients often provide transportation.”
“Generous clients.”
“Extremely.”
Her eyes sharpen. She knows I am enjoying this.
That annoys her. Good.
“What else?” I ask.
Ettore speaks before she can.
“This is dinner.”
Keira turns toward him.
“Then the wine expense is also too high.”
Nonna strikes the table once with her palm.
“Enough business. Giovanni, take her to the kitchen.”
Ettore looks at her.
“Why?”
“Because she has insulted the food without seeing where it comes from.”
“I did not insult the food,” Keira says.
Nonna points at her plate.
“You left half the risotto.”
“I am saving room.”
“For what?”
Keira glances at me.
“Evidence.”
Nonna smiles. The kitchen is in full service when I bring her through the swinging doors.
Heat replaces the dining room’s careful coolness. Pans strike burners. Orders move down the line. Garlic, wine, butter, and charred lemon fill the air. Keira stops.
Not because she is overwhelmed. Because she is listening.
I can see her counting the rhythm.
“Six stations,” she says.
“Seven.”
Her gaze moves toward pastry.
“Seven.”
Chef Morales calls for two branzino and a lamb medium rare. I step onto the line.
A sauce has broken at sauté. The fish at grill needs two minutes. Pastry is waiting on a table that has not finished its main course.
Problems in a kitchen announce themselves differently than problems in a ledger. But they still announce themselves.
I take the sauce, lower the heat, and whisk in cold butter. I shift the lamb pickup, move two appetizers ahead, and send a server back for the missing allergy confirmation.
Keira stands near the pass, out of the way. She does not ask questions while the room is moving.
Another promising quality. For six minutes, I forget she is there.
That is not true. I feel her attention the entire time.
Not admiration. Assessment.
When the rush settles, I place a small plate in front of her. Seared scallop. Brown butter. Preserved lemon.
“I already ate.”
“You moved food around a plate.”
“I was talking.”
“You talk frequently. You still require calories.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You are monitoring my intake?”
“I am observing a failure of service.”
“Your service?”
“My house.”
The word lands between us. Too intimate.
Too soon. I correct it.
“My restaurant.”
She picks up the fork. Tastes the scallop.
Her face does not change, but her eyes close for half a second. Satisfaction moves through me with unreasonable force.
“Well?” I ask.
She opens her eyes.
“Acceptable.”
“High praise.”
“You appeared dependent on it.”
I smile before I can stop myself. Her gaze drops to my mouth.
Then away. She sets down the fork and straightens the salt cellar beside the plate.
Precisely parallel to the edge of the pass. Earlier, at dinner, she aligned the bread plate while telling Matteo she had no intention of accessing Vicari business records.
At the law office, she aligned the pen after I mentioned Declan. A pattern.
She moves objects when she lies or when the truth becomes dangerous. I fold the kitchen towel in my hand.
Once. Twice.
Three times. She notices.
Of course she does.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“What?”
“The towel.”
“It means the towel is folded.”
“Repeatedly.”
“You align salt.”
“I dislike disorder.”
“So do I.”
The kitchen continues around us, but the space at the pass feels separate. A temporary room made from heat and attention.
She looks toward the office door.
“What is Meridian Security Consultants?”
The name enters quietly. It still changes the air.
I follow her gaze. A vendor invoice lies on the corner of the office desk, partly covered by reservation reports.
She could not have read more than the header from here. She read enough.
“A contractor.”
“For?”
“Security.”
“That seems circular.”
I keep my expression neutral. Meridian handles cameras, armored transport, and several services that do not appear on menus.
I have never reviewed its invoices closely. Ettore approved the vendor before I took control of Contrada.
“How did you see the name?” I ask.
“I have eyes.”
“You have weaponized eyes.”
“Not contractually prohibited.”
She takes another bite of the scallop. I study her left hand.
No movement toward the salt cellar. Not lying.
Only curious. For now.
When we return to the dining room, Nonna insists Keira take home enough food to feed six people. My fiancée argues once.
Nonna doubles the amount. At the entrance, Salvi brings Keira’s coat.
She reaches into her purse for the valet ticket. Her pen clicks.
Once. She looks toward the dining room.
Ettore is speaking quietly with Matteo near the bar.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
The salt cellar is not available, but she adjusts the edge of her purse against the hostess stand. A lie.
I follow her gaze. Ettore turns away.
Keira looks back at me.
“Thank you for dinner.”
“You barely survived.”
“I am resilient.”
“So Nonna has decided.”
The valet brings her car. I open the door.
She pauses before entering.
“You know I am not going to become obedient because your grandmother feeds me.”
“I would never insult Nonna by suggesting her strategy is that simple.”
“What is her strategy?”
“To make leaving feel wasteful.”
Something passes through her expression. Grief, perhaps.
Or recognition. Then it is gone.
She lowers herself into the car. Before I close the door, she says, “Your security company bills in unusually round numbers.”
I lean one hand on the roof.
“You read one invoice from twenty feet away.”
“Nineteen.”
“Of course.”
“The amount ended in three zeros.”
“Many amounts do.”
“Fraud prefers round numbers. Honest expenses are messy.”
The valet waits near the rear bumper, pretending not to hear us. I lower my voice.
“Are you auditing me already?”
Keira looks up. The green in her eyes darkens beneath the streetlights.
“Would you object?”
I should say yes. Instead, I close the door gently.
“That depends on what you find.”
Her car pulls away. Nonna appears beside me without warning.
She watches the taillights disappear.
“That one did not come to buy,” she says.
“No?”
“No.”
She loops one arm through mine.
“She came to collect.”