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“They don’t get stale,” Mom argues with me. “They stay moist from within. The filling doesn’t get hard.”

“Ma, when I say something is stale it’s because I believe it’s stale and therefore I will not eat it. I don’t want your three-day-old pastry!” I shout. I shove the plate toward my father.

“You took the starch right out of them. Lost my desire.” Dad pushes the plate of sfogliatelle to the center of the table.

“Stop,” Connie says softly.

“Stop what?” I turn to my sister. “Have you had a bad day?” I ask with a twist of sarcasm.

“Yes, I have had a bad day,” Connie says defensively. “My head is pounding. I drove over here because Dad called an emergency family meeting, and I would prefer to be putting my kids to bed.” Connie pats my hand. “But I’m here for you.”

The percolator releases a shot of steam, indicating the coffee is ready. My mother sheepishly removes the stale pastries from the table as though they are the actual cause of my anger. She serves cups around, filling the awkward silence with an observation. “Louie Cap was a complicated person.”

“He wasn’t that complicated,” Dad says as Mom pours him a cup of coffee.

“Oh, it’s complicated,” I assure them. “The FBI broke it down for me. Joe, please jump in when you have something to add.” I turnto my parents. “Uncle Louie secured an EIN number and used my name on the incorporation of a second company where he off-loaded remnants from Cap Marble and Stone for profit.”

“He was double-dipping?” Connie asks.

“Evidently. But why is my name on the paperwork?”

“Because it’s hard to spell,” my mother says quietly. “And it wasn’thisname.”

“You knew about the Elegant Gangster?” My voice catches as my heart races. “Did you also know he paid no taxes on the income?”

Mom and Dad look away as though they are guilty of something but aren’t sure exactly what, and even if they knew, they would not share it with me. Instead of choking, I shout, “Come on, tell me everything you know.” I don’t need a paper bag; all I need is the truth.

Mom throws her hands in the air. “That’s all I know.”

I don’t believe her. “Are you telling me he just sent the cash to the Cayman Islands?”

“Louie said he was diversifying. I went along with it. What do I know? I didn’t know he was using your identity in a shady fashion. Would we live like this if we broke the law? I’d have an in-ground pool! And a housepainter.”

“Hey,” my father warns her.

Mom continues. “Louie already had your information for the payroll, and he told us he was making you the sole heir to his and Lil’s estate. So I didn’t see anything wrong with letting him use this address and your name and information on the paperwork. It was to benefit you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Louie asked for it when you left Bobby. You were fragile. I didn’t want to pile on.”

“Ma, you invented the pile on.”

“The FBI showed me incorporation papers where Uncle Louie used a stamp with your signature on the papers,” Joe says. “Where did he get that?”

“I have a signature stamp I use on my designs,” I explain. “I kept it in the Impala. In the glove compartment.”

“Louie said he was putting together a trust for your benefit,” my father says. “I believed him.”

“You too?” I turn to my father, whom I have trusted all of my life. He may not have always given me the answer I wanted, but he told me the truth. I am stunned. “You’re involved?”

My father flails his arms around like he is choking on seawater while summoning a lifeguard off Como beach. “I’m his insurance guy. He was a business associate! What was I gonna do?”

“Stop him?”

“How is leaving his niece a trust for her future a crime?” Dad shakes his head.

“Criminality has yet to be determined,” Joe reminds us, as though this is a free consultation in his law office. Why do I feel I am getting exactly what I pay for?