Brittany draws all eyes when she hefts a solid wooden rolling pin and fixes her sights on Bobby. “Pat told me an interesting story about this.”
“Yeah?” he asks with a smile.
She starts slapping the rolling pin into her palm with a steady rhythm. “Tell him, Pat.”
Pat chuckles. “That rolling pin belonged to my grandmother. She always claimed it was how she kept Grandpa in line.”
“My grandmother had one just like it,” Brittany tells Bobby. “Right, Dad?”
I like how she’s thinking. “That’s right.”
Brittany’s eyes settle on Bobby while she asks me, “And it’s mine now?”
“Why, yes. Yes, it is.”
“Ah, young love,” Pat says with a sigh when the door closes after Brittany and Bobby leave.
“I’ll bring the rolling pin by tomorrow,” I tell her with a grin. The goofy talk has been a welcome bit of levity at the end of a trying week. Of course, the glow of young love hangs a light on the fact that any kind of romantic relationship between Pat and me is going exactly nowhere. Yet the world continues to turn.
Over the next two days, Penelope and Ben Larose compare notes and we all kick around ideas about what the Windy City lawsuit against Billy and Rick really portends. Having decided that the truth is on our side, we end up feeling fairly optimistic. Jake calls on Saturday with the happy news that Max and Papa have safely arrived at their destination in Italy. Dinner at Pat’s house with Brittany and Bobby that night goes well; no rolling pins needed, although I did remember to take ours and made sure Bobby got a good look at it.
The renewed glow of puppy love and happy thoughts lasts all of thirty minutes after dinner. That’s when I get home.
Chapter Sixteen
Did I close the blinds? I wonder after hopping out of the Porsche in the driveway. I honestly can’t remember, so I shrug the concern aside and let my mind drift back to dinner at Pat’s. As I unlock the front door while recalling the adoring—hungry?—looks passing between Brittany and Bobby across the dinner table, I make a mental note to develop an intimidating paternal warning scowl before my next Bobby encounter. Then I step inside with a smile and pull the door closed behind me. I’ve shrugged halfway out of my Gore-Tex jacket when the floor lamp in the living room snaps on.
“Good evening, Mr. Valenti.”
I spin around to the pool of light spilling over Papa’s La-Z-Boy recliner and find myself staring at a big, buff stranger who is settled in comfortably with his legs crossed. A massive hand is wrapped around one of Mama’s special-occasion crystal tumblers. It’s filled with amber liquid and rests lightly on the arm of the chair. The intruder is dressed in a pair of tan Dockers slacks, a wine-colored, short-sleeve polo shirt, and brown loafers—an outfit not unlike my own. Mind you, unlike mine, his outfit is drawn tautly over mountains of muscle. His forearms are covered in a mane of black hair, and a tuft of hair bulges out of the open collar of his shirt. Even the backs of his knuckles are a little furry. The guy fairly reeks of testosterone. His eyes settle on mine while he offers me a half smile that is utterly bereft of warmth. His hooded eyes are equally chilly as he appraises me. The only hair on his polished head is a pair of menacing bushy black eyebrows. Yet the tone of his gravelly voice is almost warm when he invites me to “have a seat.”
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in our home?” I demand.
He doesn’t appear to be the least bit alarmed to be facing down an angry six foot five inch man when he lifts his glass as if he’s about to offer a toast. “Decent bourbon. Pour yourself a glass and join me.”
It’s not a suggestion. Something in the man’s demeanor warns against doing anything other than exactly what he’s told me to do. So, as ridiculous as it seems, I pour two inches of Maker’s Mark into the tumbler he’s thoughtfully left on the table with the bourbon bottle. Then I prepare to have a chat with a man who looks like some sort of gangster. A little dart of fear pricks my heart when we lock eyes after I settle into Mama’s well-worn easy chair. I stare at his Mediterranean olive skin, prominent nose, and full, sensual lips that suggest Italian ancestry not unlike my own. There’s an effortless confidence wafting off this guy, whoever the hell he is. I steel myself in anticipation of being told that Papa and Max have walked into an Italian buzz saw a few thousand miles from where we sit.
“I couldn’t help noticing that your father isn’t here,” he says conversationally. “Only a single toothbrush in the bathroom, along with one lonely razor and a single bath towel. You haven’t moved out, have you?”
He knows damned well that I haven’t. I don’t respond.
“Where is Francesco?” he asks.
“I don’t know. He left last week.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I ape.
His eyes narrow, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. “Your instinct to cover for Francesco is admirable, yet pointless, Mr. Valenti.”
I choose to remain mute while a shaft of worry wiggles down my spine at the easy familiarity with which he refers to Papa as Francesco.
“So, you’re playing your cards close to your vest while you think things through,” he says with a note of approval. “I see how you were successful in court during Francesco’s trial and at the village hall when you kept your neighborhood intact. Bravo to that, by the way. I was impressed. Very few
