Page 53 of Laced With Secrets
Penny blinked, clearly thrown by the compliment. “The pink? No, sir. I dye it.”
“Ah, but the bone structure, the eyes—these are natural. Bellissimo.” Vicente turned back to me, reaching out expectantly. “Your hands. May I?”
I hesitated only a moment before offering my hand. Vicente took it gently, examining it with professional interest.
“Yes, yes.” He traced one finger along my palm. “The calluses here, from the leather. The slight staining—oak bark tannin? And this scar—” He touched a thin white line along my thumb. “Cutting knife slipped?”
“Utility knife,” I admitted. “When I was sixteen and thought I knew better than my grandfather’s safety rules.”
Vicente chuckled, releasing my hand. “Youth always thinks it knows better. Your grandfather, he would have scolded you, yes? But also tended the wound carefully.”
“He did both,” I said, the memory eliciting a smile and a wistful tug in my chest. “At the same time.”
“This is how we learn.” Vicente signaled our server, who appeared instantly. “These young people are my guests. Bring their food here, please. And fresh espresso for all.”
“Right away, Mr. Antonelli.”
I started to protest, but Vicente waved it off. “You came to ask about Thomas. We should talk properly, not shout across the restaurant.”
Our server returned quickly with our plates—my puttanesca looking absolutely perfect, Penny’s carbonara steaming and aromatic. Three cups of espresso followed, served in delicate porcelain.
“Please, eat,” Vicente encouraged. “The puttanesca is very good today. The chef made the sauce herself this morning.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The first bite was heaven—salty olives, briny capers, perfectly cooked pasta. Exactly what I’d been craving.
“Oh my god,” I mumbled around the mouthful. “Penny, this is exactly what the baby wanted.”
The words were out before I thought about them. Penny’s eyes went wide, his fork frozen mid-air above his carbonara. Vicente’s expression shifted, sharp intelligence flickering across his grandfatherly features.
“The baby?” he repeated softly. Then his gaze dropped to my stomach, lingering for just a moment before returning to my face. Understanding dawned in his dark eyes. “Ah, congratulazioni! Your alpha, he is proud, yes?”
My hand moved instinctively to my abdomen. “Yes. Very proud.”
“This is good.” Vicente’s smile turned nostalgic. “My Lucia, when she carried our first son, she craved puttanesca exactly like this. Extra olives, extra capers, could not get enough. I learned to make it myself just to keep her satisfied.” Something sad crossed his expression. “She has been gone twenty years now, but I still remember. You treasure these moments, capisce? Even the difficult ones.”
“I will,” I said softly.
“But enough sentiment.” Vicente sipped his espresso. “You came to ask about Thomas.”
I nodded slowly.
“Si.” Vicente’s expression grew somber. “Thomas was bellissimo too. He was a talented architect and a kind soul. He saw the good in people, even when perhaps he should not have.”
He paused.
“The Sheriff said you were involved in the financial aspects and in construction for the project,” I ventured carefully.
Penny’s foot connected with my shin beneath the table. A warning.
“The preservation guidelines provided excellent cover for moving money through legitimate construction channels. Multiple contractors, multiple sites, renovation budgets that could be… flexible,” Vicente continued, taking another sip of his espresso. “Thomas was unfortunate to be so meticoloso. He saw patterns in the accounting that others missed. The statute of limitations expired decades ago, capisce? I speak of history now, not current crimes.”
The casual admission should have been intimidating. Instead, Vicente’s manner remained almost avuncular.
I set down my fork carefully. “Did you kill him?”
Penny made a small sound of distress, but I kept my eyes locked on Vicente’s face.
“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “This was before I met my Lucia, you see? I would have given Thomas anything he desired. Protection, opportunities, a different life in Chicago or New York, far from small-town whispers.”