Page 91 of Morally Black Betrothal

She shrugged. “When I was a kid, we would visit this area and hear people speaking Italian. Now it’s mostly investment bankers or tech workers since they’re the ones who can affordthe apartments. I can’t help wondering where the families who lived here before went.”

Part of me wanted to argue. Something like thirty-five percent of current North End residents were of Italian descent, according to the last census. The city had been a pain in the ass to work with (or at least to bribe) when we started doing construction in the area because of all the heritage buildings. To grease the wheels, Blackguard had donated a substantial amount of money toward maintaining the “cultural character” of the area.

But then we passed another one of our buildings, a nineteenth-century brick apartment building that Blackguard had gutted in order to turn four floors of three-bedroom apartments into one-bedrooms that cost the same price to rent. A twenty-something man who probably did work at the Prudential or maybe even for Blackguard, someone who would stay in the area for five to ten years until he could afford a house and a family in Brookline or Newton. Definitely not long enough to shape any kind of cultural roots.

The car turned down a quieter street where most of the shops were closed except for a solitary window bearing Italian-style cakes and cookies set atop pink satin and a scatter of cheap confetti.

Written over the top of the entry, in neon red cursive with flowers on either end, was simply: “Vi’s.”

I stepped out of the car, then turned to help Simone out.

“Well, this is it.” She waved a hand toward the door, in case I hadn’t gotten the clue.

She seemed…unsure of herself, even though the storefront wasn’t hers. She peered up at me as if expecting me to spit on the place.

Was that really what she thought of me?

That I was just some rich asshole who never experienced anything beyond Michelin stars and designer clothing?

Then I had to ask myself: was she even wrong?

Yes, I’d grown up in South Boston. I’d been raised on cheap pizza and donuts for a good part of my childhood. But the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit that those indulgences hadn’t been a part of my life for very long.

When had I last stepped inside a Dunkin’?

I couldn’t even remember the taste of a hot dog at Fenway.

Christ. The evening had just taken a significant turn, and we’d barely even started.

“Dessert for dinner?” I asked in a tone I hoped sounded more playful and less depressed. “I like your style.”

The grin reappeared. “It would seem that way.”

A bell above the door rang out as we entered a humble bakery with cracked plaster walls and paneling that needed to be repainted.

“Sugar & Spice, eh?” I pointed at a chipped pink sign over the register. “Do they serve everything nice?”

God, it was good my brothers couldn’t hear me. These jokes were worse than the ones the priests used to make for the kids on Sundays.

Simone just giggled.

Worth it.

“Simone, honey!”

A middle-aged woman with gray ringlets covered by a hairnet rushed from behind the counter. As she and Simone threw their arms around each other, I watched, feeling like an awkward vulture. I didn’t think I’d ever hugged anyone like that in my life. Not even my own mother.

“Pearl, this is Brendan.” Simone beckoned me closer. “Brendan, this is Pearl, the owner of the shop.”

“I thought the shop was called Vi’s,” I said.

“Vi was her grandmother. This shop has been around since the 1800s. It’s one of the oldest bakeries in Boston.”

“I know who he is,” Pearl said in one of those thick New England accents only a few people still had. She came over to me and placed twin kisses to each of my cheeks. “I saw your face in the papers, announcing your marriage to my Simone here.” Then she surprised me with a hug as tight as the one she’d given Simone.

Unsure what to do exactly, I patted Pearl’s back. “It’s, ah, nice to meet you, too.”

Pearl turned back to Simone and wagged a finger in her face. “You. You’ve been keeping this hunk of handsome from me all this time? When did this happen, my girl?”