Chương 4 - DINNER WITH THE DEVILVittorio Vescari invited me to dinner.
I refused.
He sent another invitation.
I refused that one too.
Then he called the bakery himself.
“You have something belonging to my family.”
“So does Ancestry.com. Call them.”
There was silence.
Then a dry laugh.
“You sound like Rosa.”
“Good.”
“She was difficult too.”
“She lived to ninety-one. Apparently being difficult worked for her.”
Matteo stood across from me while I spoke.
He clearly did not approve.
That was becoming one of my favorite things about him.
Vittorio said, “Come to dinner tonight.”
“No.”
“You should hear my side.”
“Did your side involve terrorizing two pregnant women and stealing your brother’s company?”
“That is not what happened.”
“Then tell the police.”
Another silence.
“You think Matteo will protect you?”
My gaze lifted.
Matteo heard.
Something dangerous entered his eyes.
“I protect myself.”
“That,” Vittorio said softly, “is exactly what Rosa used to say.”
The call ended.
Matteo took my phone.
“You’re not going.”
“I thought you didn’t give orders in my bakery anymore.”
“I’m expanding the policy.”
“To where?”
“Everywhere.”
I laughed.
He did not.
The documents from the basement had created a problem much bigger than an old family scandal.
Carlo had apparently been the majority owner of the original Vescari business.
Over fifty years, that company had evolved into restaurants, logistics firms, commercial properties, construction companies, and legitimate investments worth hundreds of millions.
Some portions of the empire were clean.
Others had histories I preferred not to ask about.
If Carlo’s ownership had been illegally transferred after his death, my father—and after his death, possibly me—might have had a legal claim.
I did not want their empire.
I wanted the truth.
And I wanted whoever had thrown the brick through my window to stop treating my bakery like a target range.
Against every instinct I possessed, I agreed to dinner.
Vittorio lived in Lake Forest behind iron gates and enough security cameras to photograph satellites.
His house looked less like a home than a place European diplomats might sign treaties.
Matteo arrived with me.
“I invited Ms. Moretti,” Vittorio said when the doors opened.
“You got both of us.”
The old man’s gaze moved between us.
“Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” I asked.
“That you’re sleeping with my grandson.”
I nearly choked.
Matteo looked bored.
“Not yet.”
I elbowed him.
Hard.
Vittorio watched us.
Something almost like nostalgia crossed his face.
“Rosa once threw a wine bottle at my head.”
“She missed?”
“She did not.”
“I like her more every day.”
Dinner was served in a room with a table long enough to require binoculars.
Sofia sat beside me.
Apparently, nobody had been able to stop her from attending.
Vittorio’s daughter Elena—Sofia’s mother—sat across from us.
She looked terrified.
Several other relatives occupied the table.
Nobody spoke freely until Vittorio sat.
That told me everything.
He was eighty-three and thin, but the room still belonged to him.
“You found Rosa’s letter,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And Carlo’s ledger.”
“Yes.”
“That ledger was stolen.”
“By your dead brother?”
His mouth tightened.
“Carlo was reckless.”
“So you took his company?”
“I saved it.”
Matteo leaned back.
“Answer her.”
Vittorio’s gaze sharpened.
For the first time I saw open conflict between them.
“You know nothing about what this family was in 1977.”
“Then explain it.”
Vittorio picked up his wine.
“Our father was dying. Carlo wanted to abandon everything.”
“For Lucia?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Your wife.”
Several relatives looked down.
Vittorio did not.
“Lucia and I married young. It was arranged between families.”
“And she loved Carlo.”
“She believed she did.”
“She was carrying his baby.”
His glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
Sofia whispered, “So it’s true.”
Vittorio looked older suddenly.
“Yes.”
The admission landed heavily.
“What happened at the warehouse?” Matteo asked.
Vittorio stared into his wine.
“My father confronted Carlo.”
“About Lucia?”
“About everything. Carlo wanted his shares converted and the company sold. He intended to leave Chicago with her.”
“And you?”
“I wanted to preserve what our family built.”
“So the warehouse burned.”
“I did not start that fire.”
“Who did?”
“My father.”
Nobody moved.
Vittorio continued.
“He intended to frighten Carlo. Destroy records. Make him understand that he could not walk away.”
“But Carlo was inside.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“No.”
His voice cracked almost invisibly.
“The fire spread too quickly.”
For the first time, I saw something beneath the old man’s control.
Regret.
Maybe grief.
But regret did not erase what came after.
“You told everyone Lucia died.”
“She needed to disappear.”
“You threatened her.”
“I gave her money.”
“You told her to surrender her child.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“That letter contains Rosa’s interpretation.”
“Did you?”
Silence.
That was an answer.
I pushed away from the table.
“I’m done.”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
Every person in the room froze.
Maybe nobody told Vittorio no.
Apparently, I had inherited my grandmother’s poor survival instincts.
“You spent fifty years protecting yourself,” I said. “Not your family. Yourself.”
“You have no idea what was necessary.”
“I know my father died without knowing who his biological father was.”
Vittorio stared at me.
“And I know my grandmother spent her life afraid.”
I stood.
“So whatever you think I owe this family, you’re wrong.”
Vittorio’s voice stopped me.
“Your father knew.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Anthony knew.”
My heart slammed.
“You’re lying.”
“I met him.”
“When?”
“1998.”
I was four.
“What happened?”
“He came here.”
“Why?”
“To ask about his mother.”
I could barely breathe.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“All of it?”
“Enough.”
“And then?”
“He made me an offer.”
Matteo frowned.
“What offer?”
Vittorio looked directly at me.
“He agreed never to challenge ownership of the company.”
“Why would he do that?”
“In exchange, I guaranteed Bellflower Bakery would remain untouched by the family forever.”
My stomach turned.
“The purchase offers.”
“Were not mine.”
Matteo leaned forward.
“Whose were they?”
Before Vittorio could answer, the dining room windows exploded.
People screamed.
Matteo threw himself across me.
Glass rained over the table.
Security guards ran.
Somewhere outside, an engine roared.
Matteo dragged me to the floor.
Sofia was crying.
Elena covered her daughter.
Vittorio looked toward the shattered window.
For the first time all evening, fear appeared in his face.
Matteo shouted, “Who else knows about the documents?”
Vittorio didn’t answer.
Matteo grabbed his collar.
“Who?”
Vittorio looked at his grandson.
Then he whispered a name.
“Your uncle.”
Matteo went completely still.
I had heard about Matteo’s uncle.
Dante Vescari.
The man who controlled the family businesses in New York.
The man even Matteo rarely discussed.
Vittorio stared at the broken glass.
“Dante has been trying to buy Bellflower for thirty years.”
I remembered the letters.
The offers.
The brick.
May you like
And suddenly the fifty-year-old secret wasn’t buried anymore.
It was worth killing for.
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