Page 12 of Tasting Sin

Smoke was still rolling off the car when we pulled up, and the flashing red and blue lights from the emergency responders reflected off the burnt black paint. “Fucking hell,” Giaco grumbled in clear annoyance. There wasn’t much he liked less than a heavy police presence around the business. Understandably, though. The police weren’t a huge fan of our family. “What a cluster fuck.”

He continued to curse under his breath while he climbed out of the car, and Enzo practically vibrated when he threw open the door to the back seat. He bounced from one foot to the other like a child who couldn’t wait to get somewhere exciting, but his face was cool and collected when he scanned the area. Enzo was explosive—always ready to cause a ruckus, but terrifyingly calm to anyone on the outside.

“I’m going to go sniff around,” he said, strolling casually away from us and into the crowd of emergency workers. He meant it literally and figuratively. I knew Enzo would come back knowing more about what started the fire than the fire chief himself did, but he’d also have likely heard something helpful in addition. He was quiet and easily stayed in the shadow. Most of the time, people didn’t know he was there until he already had the information he wanted.

He was barely out of sight before we heard the steps behind us. “You guys made it,” Elliott Black said, reaching his hand out to Giaco. “Though not preferred circumstances. It could always be worse.”

Elliott had been there for our family through much worse than a car fire, including a laundry list of crimes we all managed to get away with scot-free. He was one of the best criminal lawyers in Boston, and we had him exclusively on retainer. Seeing Elliott was usually bad news and a relief all in one—today, it felt like more of the former.

“Could be,” Giaco said, shaking his hand and grunting. “What do you know?”

“I heard one of the police talking about having seen Luca Cassidy and that friend of his, Elijah Ashford, hanging around here recently. Word has it they’ve been spending time over at The Full Spread too.” He shrugged, checking briefly over his shoulder, as if to make sure nobody behind him overheard. Then, he nodded at a group of men in suits taking turns glancing our way. “I’m not the only one who has gotten that word. The FBI is poking around. You guys need to watch your back.”

I nodded. “We’re not doing anything wrong, Elliott.”

“That’s not how they’ll see it.” He cleared his throat with a quiet cough. “This is a clear statement from the Cassidys. We already know how well the Irish and Italians in this area get along. Do what you can to not make it worse, huh?”

“I’ve got it under control, Black.” Giaco skipped to using his last name—a usual sign that he was done listening to what he had to say. Elliott nodded, knowing better than to continue pushing. “But I’m not going to allow an attack on my business. Or on my family.”

Elliott opened his mouth to respond, closing it again when one of the men in a suit approached us. “You must be the infamous Moretti brothers,” he said with a half-forced, friendly chuckle.

“We are,” I said, fixing the cuff on my jacket. Neither of us moved to take his outstretched hand. “And you are…?”

“Detective Nelson Stanton.” He paused, putting his hands up in faux surrender when he realized we weren’t shaking it. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I’m not here to cause any issues for you.”

Giaco narrowed his eyes in a way I knew mirrored my own, clearly skeptical of Detective Stanton. Every cop wanted to take down the head of the Moretti family. I had no doubt this one was the same.

“What can we do for you, Detective?” I asked, and he relaxed, dropping his shoulders.

He gestured vaguely behind him at the crowd of officers and firemen who seemed to outnumber what was really needed for the smoking car. The fire was out completely, but the flashing lights still illuminated more of the street as the evening dusk settled over Boston. “It appears we’ve got a bit of a problem here. Cars don’t just explode on a quiet street on a Sunday.” He laughed, like he was trying to convince us we were old friends, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. It never did me any favors when I did. “Do you know what happened?”

“You just watched us pull up five minutes ago,” Giaco snapped. “What makes you think we have any more idea about this disaster than you do? Judging by the size of the crowd of your buddies over there, you have been here a lot longer than we have.”

I smiled at Detective Stanton and clapped my hands together once, folding my fingers. “Listen. I think what my brother is trying to say is that you have all the resources needed to find out who did this and why. So do it.”

“Sure,” Stanton laughed, “but it would be so much faster if you helped us out. I know there’s some tension between you and the Cassidys. Do you think they’re sending you a message?”

“You sign your messages, don’t you?” Giaco glared at him until he shrugged a single shoulder. “With all due respect, Detective, if they were sending a message, don’t you think they’d sign it too?”

Stanton looked thoughtful for a moment, like he was considering the angle. Then, he rocked his head side to side. “I think we both know you clearly know something about it. Something you could share with us that would make this whole thing a lot easier.” He glanced behind him at the security cameras hanging on the side of the building—the ones we would be checking later.

“As much as we’d love to make your search easier, we don’t know anything. That would still be your job, right?” I winked at him like he was an old friend, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

I stepped past him in the direction of the car, and the detective chuckled. “Fair enough. I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” he said, staying where he stood. “Have a good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Chapter 9

Nellie

“Oh, I don’t know, Ida,” I said, pushing the wheelchair around the corner. The woman who reminded me of my grandmother looked up at me over her shoulder, grinning when we pulled up outside the game room. “I’m not really looking to date anyone.”

“Come on, sweet girl. Just let me set you up with my grandson. I promise, you’ll hit it off.” For a woman in her nineties, she was persistent. Her hands shook, and she wiggled her eyebrows.

I laughed loudly. “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

Women like Ida were the reason I volunteered at Shady Grove. It was a way for me to spend a few hours each week hanging out with people who had experienced a lot of life. I loved listening to their stories, and at least twice a week, I was telling somebody I wouldn’t marry their grandson.

“I’ll convince you,” Ida giggled. “Now, are you going to play me at checkers today?” I nodded.

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