ELENA
Matteo didn't warn me.
He picked me up at six in a black car that was too clean, wearing a suit that wasn't the one he'd bled in on my floor. He looked like the photos in the paper again — controlled, distant, the heir. I was wearing the only dress I owned that didn't have flour on it, a navy blue thing that used to be my mother's, and I felt like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
"Where are we going?" I asked, as he opened the car door for me. He didn't touch me. He never touched me unless he had to.
"To my mother's house," he said. "Sunday dinner."
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about my mother."
"You can't take me to your mother's house, Matteo. Your cousin killed my brother."
He got in the driver's side, closed his door, and looked at me. "Exactly. And if you don't come to dinner, she'll come to the bakery. She's been asking about you. She knows Antonio's sister is alive and angry and that I'm… involved. If she comes to you, it won't be a conversation. It'll be a test. And you'll fail it, because you don't know the rules."
"What are the rules?"
"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't refuse food. Don't cry. And if anyone offers you a drink, you take it, you sip it, and you put it down. You don't finish it. Finishing it means you're staying."
I laughed, a short, ugly sound. "This is insane."
"Yes," he said, and pulled away from the curb. "But it's safer than the alternative."
The Moretti house was not a house. It was a compound behind a gate, all stone and iron and windows that watched you. The driveway was lined with cars that cost more than my bakery made in five years.
A man opened my door before Matteo could come around. He didn't look at me.
Inside, it smelled like garlic and tomato sauce and something else underneath — money, old wood, gun oil.
The dining room table was long enough to seat twenty. Only six people were there.
Matteo's mother sat at the head. Caterina Moretti. She was small, 60s, hair pulled back so tight it had to hurt, wearing black. She looked at me and did not smile.
"Elena Russo," she said. My name in her mouth sounded like an accusation.
"Mrs. Moretti," I said. I didn't offer my hand. Matteo had told me not to.
She gestured to the chair on Matteo's right. "Sit. You're late."
I wasn't late. We were exactly on time. I sat.
Vincent was there, at the foot of the table, Matteo's cousin. The V from Antonio's notebook. He was handsome in a way that made my skin crawl — easy smile, expensive watch, eyes that didn't match the smile. He looked at me and his smile widened.
"Elena," he said, like we were old friends. "I'm so glad you could come. We were all so sorry about Antonio. He was a good kid."
I felt Matteo go still beside me. Not tense. Still. Like a predator deciding whether to move.
"Thank you," I said. My voice was even. I was proud of that.
Dinner was served by women who didn't speak. Plates appeared. Pasta. Meat. Bread. More food than six people could eat.
Caterina watched me eat. "You cook," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Your brother said you were good."
The fork stopped halfway to my mouth. "He talked about me?"
"He talked about you all the time," Vincent said, pouring himself more wine. "Said you were going to open your own place. Somewhere by the water."
Antonio had told me that, late at night, when he was drunk and sentimental. We'll get out, El. You'll have your bakery by the water and I'll fix boats or something stupid and we'll be normal.
I put the fork down. "He did."
Caterina's eyes were on me, sharp. "And now you're here. With my son. After your brother died working for us."
The table went quiet. Even the clink of silverware stopped.
Matteo spoke before I could. "She's here because I asked her to come, Ma."
"Why?" Caterina asked. Not angry. Curious. That was worse.
Matteo looked at me. Then back at his mother. "Because Antonio was loyal to us. And we owe his family a debt."
Vincent laughed. "A debt? Matteo, don't be dramatic. We sent flowers."
Matteo didn't look at him. "We sent flowers. She deserves more than flowers."
I could feel Vincent's eyes on me now, really on me, and I understood, suddenly, why Matteo had brought me. Not to protect me from his mother.
To show Vincent I was under Matteo's protection. In front of witnesses. In front of his mother.
It was a move. I was a piece on a board.
I hated it. I also understood it.
Caterina studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, and picked up her fork again. "Eat, Elena. You're too thin."
I ate. The food was good. I hated that, too.
After dinner, the men went to the study. "Business," Matteo said quietly to me. "Stay with my mother. Do not go in there."
So I sat in the living room with Caterina Moretti while she drank espresso from a tiny cup and looked at me like she was trying to decide if I was worth the trouble I was going to cause her son.
"You love him," she said finally. Not a question.
I almost choked. "I don't even like him."
She smiled. It was a terrible smile, thin and knowing. "Good. Love is a liability in this family. Like is harder. Like lasts."
"I'm not here because I like him, Mrs. Moretti. I'm here because your nephew killed my brother and your son is the only person who seems to care that that's wrong."
She didn't flinch. "Vincent is my husband's brother's son. Blood is blood. But Matteo is my son. And he has not brought a woman to this table in ten years. Not since his sister died."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"He's different with you," she said. "Quieter. He watches you like you're going to disappear. Don't disappear, Elena Russo. He's lost enough."
Before I could answer, there was a sound from the study. A thud. A chair scraping.
Caterina didn't move. "They're fine," she said. "Men need to hit things sometimes. It's cleaner than talking."
Matteo came out five minutes later. His knuckles were split and bleeding. Vincent came out after him, lip swelling, still smiling.
Matteo didn't look at me. He looked at his mother. "We're leaving."
In the car, he didn't speak until we were off the property.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be," I said. My hands were shaking in my lap. I tucked them under my thighs. "Did you get what you needed?"
He glanced at me, surprised. "Yes."
"Good."
He drove with one hand, the other resting on the console between us. Close. Not touching.
"You did well," he said finally. "You didn't cry. You didn't refuse the food. You didn't finish the drink."
"I'm a fast learner."
He was quiet for a block. Then: "My mother likes you."
"That's not possible. She looked at me like I was a cockroach."
"That's how she looks at people she likes. If she didn't like you, she wouldn't have looked at you at all."
I laughed, and it came out shaky. "Your family is terrifying."
"Yes," he said. And then, softer: "Thank you for coming."
We pulled up to my apartment. He didn't get out. He never came up.
"Elena," he said, as I opened the door.
I turned.
"Vincent knows you have the notebook."
My blood went cold. "How?"
"Because I told him."
I stared at him. "Why would you do that?"
"Because now he has to come for you. And when he does, I'll be there. And it will be over."
"You used me as bait."
"Yes," he said, and he didn't look away. "I told you I would be honest."
I got out of the car. Slammed the door. Walked to my building without looking back.
He didn't drive away until I was inside and the light in my window came on.
I stood in my kitchen and pressed my forehead against the cold refrigerator door and thought about Caterina Moretti's voice: Don't disappear. He's lost enough.
I wasn't going to disappear.
But I was going to make Vincent Moretti regret the day he learned my name.