Page 52 of Laced With Secrets
“Vicente has good taste,” I agreed, opening my menu even though I already knew what I wanted.
Our server arrived moments later—a young man with an efficient smile and what looked like genuine enthusiasm for his job. “Good afternoon! Can I start you with drinks?”
“Sparkling water with lemon,” I said. “And I’d like the puttanesca, please. With extra olives and capers.”
“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”
“Carbonara,” Penny said. “And sparkling water as well.”
The server made notes and left. Penny leaned forward. “Okay, we’re here. We’re eating at a mobster’s restaurant. Let’s just have a nice meal and then?—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixing on something across the restaurant. All the color drained from his face.
“Penny?”
“I think that’s Vicente Antonelli,” he whispered.
My skin prickled immediately. I turned carefully, trying not to be obvious.
An older man sat alone at a corner table near the far window, reading what looked like an Italian newspaper over espresso. Late eighties at least, with silver hair combed back in that old-fashioned style that somehow looked distinguished rather than dated. He wore dark slacks, a crisp dove-gray shirt, and a navy cardigan that was probably made of expensive cashmere. Gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. Simple watch, perfectly shined shoes.
He looked like someone’s beloved grandfather. The kind who would slip you extra money and tell you not to tell your mother.
Not like a feared mob boss at all.
“Are you sure?” I asked quietly.
“I believe so,” Penny said, clutching his fancy cloth napkin until his knuckles whitened. “Mrs. Henderson pointed him out once at the farmer’s market. Yep, that’s definitely him.”
I studied Vicente more carefully. Several staff members hovered nearby—not obviously protective, but clearly attentive. The deference in their body language was unmistakable.
“I need to talk to him,” I heard myself say.
“No!” Penny gasped, grabbing my arm. “What happened to stepping back?”
“It’s just a conversation. Public place.” I stood before I could talk myself out of it. “We’re just asking about Thomas for the memorial service. It’s expected, really. They did work together.”
“That’s the thinnest excuse I’ve ever heard,” Penny hissed, but I could see him wavering.
“Come with me?”
Penny stared at me for a long moment, clearly torn between loyalty and self-preservation. Then sighed dramatically. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”
My heart pounded as we crossed the restaurant. I was acutely aware that I was approaching a man who’d allegedly been involved in multiple criminal undertakings over the years. But I was also aware of the lunch crowd around us, the staff watching, the public nature of our interaction.
Vicente looked up as we approached, his dark eyes assessing us with keen intelligence. For a moment, none of us spoke. Then I forced myself to take that final step forward.
“Mr. Antonelli?” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “My name is Leo Sterling-Hart. I’m Joe and Benji Sterling-Hart’s grandson. I know this is forward, but I’m helping prepare a memorial service for Thomas Wong.”
I paused, my words hanging in the air between us. Then, the rest tumbled out in a rush. “I heard you worked together on the preservation project in the 70s. I was hoping you might share some memories of him?”
The restaurant’s ambient noise seemed to fade away as Vicente’s dark gaze held mine. He removed his reading glasses slowly, folding them with precise care. Then his weathered face broke into a warm smile.
“Ah! The piccolo calzolaio with the red hair!” He gestured graciously to the empty chairs at his table. “Please, sit, sit. I have been wondering when someone would come to ask about Thomas.”
I exchanged a glance with Penny, whose expression clearly saidthis is a terrible idea, but we both sat.
“Your hair,” Vicente said immediately, studying me with open appreciation. “It is like autumn leaves in Tuscany.” Then his gaze shifted to Penny, and his smile widened. “You are very eye-catching too, young man. The pink. Is this natural?”