Chapter 1 - The Name Beneath the Flour
Massimo Riva had faced men holding weapons with less dread than he felt looking at Frankie’s wooden spoon.
She held it at chest height, pointed directly at him. Flour dusted the dark curls escaping her hair clip. A smear of chocolate marked the side of her wrist. Until thirty seconds earlier, she had been showing him how to fill a piping bag without wearing its contents.
Now she was waiting for him to explain why a man in an expensive suit had appeared in her doorway looking as if the city had caught fire.
“Boss,” Tino said again. “We’ve been trying to reach you for nine hours.”
Frankie lowered the spoon slightly.
“Boss?”
Massimo closed his eyes.
There were many ways he could have handled the moment. He had built an adult life out of selecting the right words, concealing the wrong facts, and making other people accept the version of events he needed.
For once, none of those skills seemed useful.
“Frankie,” he said, “I owe you an explanation.”
“You owe me several.”
The oven timer chimed once.
She glanced toward it, then back at him.
“The tarts have four minutes. Nobody reveals a secret identity while my pastry is at a critical stage.”
Tino stared.
Massimo sat down.
That morning, the day had begun with his grandmother announcing that her hip was making the noise again.
Nonna Gemma called at seven.
“Which noise?” he asked.
“The unpleasant one.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“You can discuss vocabulary when you collect me.”
Massimo looked at the meeting schedule on his desk. Thirty-eight years old, responsible for six legitimate companies and an organization nobody mentioned directly in polite conversation, he still rearranged his morning when Gemma used that tone.
“Eleven-thirty,” he said.
“Wear something comfortable.”
He should have recognized the warning.
Gemma did not recommend comfortable clothing for medical appointments. She preferred doctors to understand that the patient before them had standards.
At eleven-fifteen, Tino followed him to the car.
“The Castellano meeting is at four.”
“I know.”
“They specifically asked for you.”
“Then they can specifically wait if my grandmother’s appointment runs late.”
Tino glanced toward the vehicle.
“No detail?”
“Not today.”
“Massimo—”
“If she notices men following her, she’ll blame me. Then I’ll blame you. Let’s avoid the journey.”
Tino stepped back.
Gemma was waiting outside her townhouse in a camel coat, her handbag held against her stomach. She kissed Massimo’s cheek, settled into the passenger seat, and began humming.
He noticed.
He failed to interpret it.
At the next intersection, she pointed left.
“The clinic is straight ahead.”
“A shortcut.”
“There’s no shortcut in that direction.”
“My hip dislikes arguments.”
He turned.
They stopped outside a narrow storefront with steamed windows and a hand-painted sign: Bello’s—Cook With Me.
Massimo looked at the sign.
Then at his grandmother.
“This isn’t a clinic.”
“No,” she said, unfastening her seat belt. “This is an intervention.”
Before he could answer, she held out her hand.
“Your phone.”
He stared.
“No phones during the lesson. You’re paid through nine. Nonrefundable.”
“I have a meeting.”
“You have a life you keep postponing.”
The sentence stopped him more effectively than the demand.
Gemma looked at his face.
“One day,” she said. “Give me one day when you’re my grandson before you’re everybody else’s emergency.”
He placed the phone in her palm.
She smiled, then opened her door.
Massimo reached for the handle on his side.
“One more thing,” Gemma said.
He looked back.
“Her name is Frankie. She thinks your name is Max.”
“Why?”
May you like
Gemma’s smile faded.
“Because for one day, I wanted someone to meet you before learning why she should be afraid.”
