Chapter 6 - The Truth Behind the Mafia Boss
The protective order was granted.
The investigation into Marco’s harassment and break-in continued, strengthened by security footage, messages, witness testimony, and the recording from Bellissimo.
Weeks passed.
Marco stayed away.
Vincent did not.
He appeared every Thursday at the corner booth.
Always whiskey.
Always alone at first.
Eventually Grace began taking her breaks across from him.
One evening she dropped a folder onto his table.
“What’s this?” Vincent asked.
“My bakery.”
He opened it.
“You’re actually doing it?”
“I found a storefront.”
“Where?”
“Lincoln Square.”
Vincent examined the numbers.
“This rent is high.”
“I know.”
“The equipment estimate is low.”
“I know.”
“You’re missing insurance costs.”
“I know.”
He looked up.
“Why did you show me this?”
“Because you said you do investments.”
Vincent smiled.
“You’re asking the mafia-looking man for business advice?”
“I’m evolving.”
He studied the folder.
“I’ll invest.”
“No.”
“You just asked—”
“I asked for advice.”
“Grace.”
“No.”
“You need capital.”
“I need someone to tell me whether the plan is stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
“Great.”
She took the folder.
Vincent held onto it.
“But your projections are too conservative.”
“Is that bad?”
“It means you don’t understand your own value.”
Grace stopped.
Vincent looked at her.
“Your manager says customers request your desserts even though they aren’t officially on the menu.”
“You talked to my manager?”
“He talks a lot.”
“That he does.”
“You have customers already. You have recipes. You have discipline.”
He released the folder.
“You don’t need my money.”
Grace smiled.
“That was exactly what I needed.”
Vincent watched her.
“What?”
“You’re leaving Bellissimo.”
“In two months.”
“And then?”
“Then I fail spectacularly.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“But I know you’ll get back up.”
Grace sat opposite him.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Marco recognize you?”
Vincent went silent.
Grace waited.
Finally, he spoke.
“My father was Carlo Moretti.”
Grace knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew the stories.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“You inherited his organization?”
“I inherited his enemies. His reputation. His businesses. His mistakes.”
“And the rest?”
“I dismantled what I could. Sold what I didn’t want. Legitimatized what could be saved.”
“People still fear you.”
“They remember my father.”
Grace studied him.
“Marco didn’t look like he was remembering your father.”
Vincent’s eyes met hers.
“No.”
“Then why was he afraid of you?”
“Because years ago I made it clear that certain businesses would no longer operate under my family’s protection.”
“What businesses?”
“Extortion. Trafficking. Predatory lending.”
Grace understood.
“Marco was connected?”
“Peripheral. Enough to know my name.”
She was quiet.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want your decision to trust me based on whether you feared me.”
Grace smiled faintly.
“I never trusted you because I feared you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
She leaned forward.
“Because the first thing you did after finding that photograph was call the police.”
Vincent laughed softly.
“That ruined my mysterious reputation.”
“Completely.”
Silence settled between them.
Then Grace asked, “Are you ever going to ask me out?”
Vincent nearly choked on his whiskey.
Grace grinned.
“That was worth waiting six weeks for.”
“You’re serious?”
“Maybe.”
“Grace.”
“Vincent.”
He leaned closer.
“Dinner. Saturday.”
“I work Saturday.”
“Sunday.”
“I’m looking at bakery equipment.”
“I’ll come.”
“That sounds suspiciously like free labor.”
“I charge expensive consulting fees.”
“I’ll pay you in cannoli.”
Vincent considered it.
May you like
“Deal.”
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