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10

LARK

T he morning light filtering through the coffee shop’s windows couldn’t quite dispel the lingering smell of flood damage. Even after the cleanup crews had worked through the night, something felt unsettled—like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next blow.

“The espresso machine’s acting up again,” Gram called from behind the counter. She’d insisted on opening as usual, refusing to let anyone—especially not the Castellanos—dictate how we ran our business. It didn’t go unnoticed that her hands trembled as she worked the temperamental equipment, her usual, confident movements turning hesitant.

“Let me help.” I went to take over, trying not to notice the unmarked SUV parked across the street or how Tank had positioned himself near the front windows, his attention divided between the world outside and the few early morning customers who’d braved the security presence to get their usual orders.

“I’m not completely helpless,” Gram protested like I’d heard her do with Tank and some of the other guys, but she stepped aside anyway. Her cane tapped against the floor as she made her way to the register. “Though I must say, having all these handsome, young men around isn’t terrible for business.”

I snorted, remembering how she’d charmed the entire security team over breakfast, telling stories about Gloversville’s glory days while serving them coffee perfectly prepared to each one’s preferences. Even Grit, who’d initially seemed wary of the soft-boiled eggs and marinated herring Gram made everyone for breakfast, appeared to have warmed up to it.

“Speaking of handsome, young men,” she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Have you heard from Alessandro?”

“Gram.” I focused on the espresso machine, hoping she wouldn’t notice my cheeks warming. “He’s in court.”

She raised a brow. “That’s not what I asked.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a message from Blackjack. I’d gotten several updates throughout the morning, each one more concerning than the last. Three more vehicles had joined the first, rotating positions in a way he suggested indicated professional surveillance.

“Everything okay?” Gram asked, reading my expression.

“Fine.” The lie felt heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to worry her more than necessary. “Just checking the time.”

The bell above the door chimed as Karen from the flower shop entered, looking anxious. “There are more of them,” she snapped. “Black sedans. They’re watching both our shops now.”

Tank was already moving, speaking quietly into his headset. Through the windows, I saw several security team members take up new positions, their movements precise and coordinated.

“Maybe we should close,” Karen suggested, wringing her hands.

“No.” Gram’s voice was firm. “We didn’t survive the last few years just to let thugs drive us out of business now.”

The morning rush kept us busy enough that I could almost pretend it was a normal day. Regular customers filtered in, some casting nervous glances at the security detail, others acting as if nothing was amiss. Mrs. Chen, from the alterations shop, brought us fresh-baked almond cookies, insisting we needed to keep our strength up. Mr. Peterson, who’d been coming in for his morning coffee since before I was born, sat at his usual table by the window, positioning himself like an extra sentry.

Around ten, I retreated to the basement to check if any bags of coffee beans still remained on the shelves. I should’ve anticipated the K19 crew, as everyone seemed to call them, would be too thorough to leave any behind. The water damage had been mostly contained, but the musty smell lingered.

I picked up a folded piece of paper that must’ve fallen from one of the boxes they’d delivered to Canada Lake, stunned to see the customer’s name written on the invoice for several pairs of custom leather gloves—Maria Castellano. The date was September 14, 1954, a year before the fire.

When I returned upstairs, Gram was deep in conversation with an elderly man I didn’t recognize. Their voices dropped as I approached, but I caught fragments about “the old days” and “before the troubles.” The man’s eyes followed me as I moved behind the counter, but I couldn’t read his expression.

“Who was that?” I asked after he left.

“An old friend. He knew Papa Werner.”

I was about to press her for details when more customers came in, demanding my attention.

Things slowed down considerably by midafternoon, so much so that I was about to suggest we close early when four young men came in, wearing leather jackets with familiar insignias—the same ones I’d seen in old photographs of the Hoffman factory workers. They ordered complicated drinks and left generous tips, but something about their presence felt off.

They’d just left when Grit pulled me aside. “I received a message from Diesel, who’s one of the K19 team at the courthouse,” he said quietly. “Vincent mentioned your grandmother in court today.”

My stomach dropped. “What did he say?”

“‘Give my regards to Barbara.’” He hesitated. “Alessandro’s worried.”

“He should be focused on his testimony.”

“Yeah, well.” Grit’s smile was grim. “You try telling him that.”

Less than an hour later, I was in the back, restocking supplies and going through the list of things we did each day before closing. Since tomorrow was Saturday, it would probably be busier than today had been. I wiped my hands on my apron and was about to hang it on a hook when I heard a crash from the front of the shop. It sounded like glass shattering. Someone screamed, then Tank’s voice cut through the chaos. “Get down!”

I ran out of the kitchen with my heart in my throat. The front window had a large hole in the middle, and it looked like the rest of the glass might soon give way. Gram stood frozen behind the counter, her face pale.

“Everyone okay?” Tank was already moving, coordinating with his team through his earpiece while checking on the handful of customers. No one appeared hurt, just shaken.

“What was that?” I asked.

“This,” said Grit, holding a brick wrapped in paper held by a rubber band.

I reached for it, but he stopped me. “Let me.” He removed it, his expression darkening as he read whatever was written there.

“What does it say?” I demanded.

He hesitated, glancing at Gram.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She snatched the paper from his hands and scanned the message. “‘Family takes care of family,’” she read aloud. “Signed with a ‘V.’”

“Vincent,” I whispered. “I don’t understand why he has it out for us,” I added in a shaky voice. It was like their family was specifically targeting ours, even at the time of the fire. I couldn’t remember hearing about any other factories that burned. That didn’t mean there weren’t more. Apart from Papa Werner refusing to pay the extortion money Vincenzo demanded, how did they even know us?

Gram’s hand found mine, squeezing tight. “Come with me.” She pulled me into the back storeroom. “The marinara sauce,” she said out of the blue.

“What about it?”

“The recipe.” Her eyes met mine. “It wasn’t handed down from your grandfather’s family like I told you.”

“I don’t understand?—”

“It was Maria Castellano’s. She was Vincenzo’s wife. I’m not sure how it came about, but she and my mother became friends. Anyway, I thought about my mom’s sauce while in the supermarket one afternoon, lamenting to a friend that I’d never gotten her to write down the recipe. The next day, a man delivered an envelope, and it was inside.”

“So someone overheard you and got a message to Maria?”

Gram shook her head. “I always had the feeling it was her daughter-in-law, Amelia. By that time, Maria was already dead.”

“Amelia is Alessandro’s mother?”

She nodded.

“I found this in the basement. It’s an invoice with Maria listed as the customer.” I pulled the folded invoice from my pocket and showed it to her.

Gram studied it. “According to my mother, Maria ordered new gloves from us every year. The betrayal, even if they weren’t best friends, hit her hard after the factory burned. She couldn’t believe the woman didn’t warn her and Papa.”

“Maybe she didn’t know.”

Gram shrugged. “There is no one left alive who could say for sure. The hatred our family felt for her husband, Vincenzo, was multiplied by what my mother saw as another betrayal. The note delivered via a brick thrown through our window reinforces what I’ve always been told about the Castellanos. ‘Family takes care of family.’”

“Wait. You said you thought someone overheard you talking about the recipe in the grocery store. Did the Castellanos live around here?”

“They had a compound on Great Sacandaga Lake. Back then, there were far more stores here than there. The summer crowd would flock to town in droves.”

“Gram, did my mother leaving have something to do with their family?”

Her already pale face lost its remaining color. “Why would you ask that?”

I shrugged. “A hunch.” My eyes opened wide, remembering the conversation Alessandro and I had about his brother and my mother being the same age. “Vincent Castellano isn’t my…” I couldn’t speak the words. It was too horrific to imagine he could be my father.

“No!” She gasped. “She didn’t know him.”

“How can you be sure?”

“We have customers to take care of,” she snapped, slamming her cane into the linoleum floor when she stalked away.

Customers? I doubted we’d have a single one for the remainder of the day, given we no longer had a front window.

When my phone buzzed again, I considered ignoring it, but I couldn’t. Who knew what new threat might pop up.

Are you okay? said the message from Alessandro.

Yes. The front window was shattered, but no one was hurt.

I’m sorry.

I wanted to ask why his family hated us so much, but didn’t. Instead I wrote, Blackjack told me your brother mentioned Gram in court.

Dots appeared on the screen like he was typing something else, then went away. I waited, and when I didn’t see more, I stuffed the phone in my pocket.

I looked around at the shattered glass, at the security team already boarding up the window, and at my grandmother, who I now believed knew far more than she was willing to say.

We need to talk, I typed on the screen.

His response was immediate. Leaving the city now.

We left Gloversville a short while later and drove to Canada Lake. When we arrived, Alice opened the door and raced down the front steps.

“I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

“Shaken but not hurt,” I said, watching as Tank helped Gram inside. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I said once I was sure my grandmother couldn’t hear me.

“Anything.”

“There are two people I need to find—my mother and Alessandro’s. Something tells me one or both of them know why Vincent wants to destroy our family.” I just prayed that the reason he did had nothing to do with me.

“Come inside, and we’ll get started.”