Skullduggery {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

With all the drastic redevelopments to the lower east side that Artemisia was apparently responsible for, I was happy as hell to see the orange brick front of Dom's hadn't changed. Not even a new coat of paint had been slapped on the chipped wooden sign.

Pasticceria Domenico.

Named after his father and his father and likely his. They were the first of many Southern Italian families to settle in the neighborhood about a hundred years back and now were one of only a few who remained.

Before I even opened the door, the smell of fresh pastries and espresso surrounded me. Overhead, the bells chimed in tune with Otello Profazio's voice that sang through the speakers. The morning crowd had already come and gone. Only a few people lined the tables along the windows, no one stood at the coffee bar.

As I walked up to the counter, a woman leaving brushed against my arm.

"Ma scusari."

The lilt of her voice made me twist my head around. Golden blonde hair fell to the middle of her back, sticking out beneath a suede fedora. A velvet sienna dress wrapped her body, beige boots came up to her knees. For less than a second, she glanced back before slipping out onto the main street. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, the rest of her face shadowed by the wide brim of her hat, but the lingering scent of Chanel made my heart pound.

I was losing my damn mind.

"You gonna order or what?" a teenager behind the counter called out to me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, trying to shake off the chill. "Uh, gimme four cannoli, a couple cornetti with the pistachio cream..." As I tried to focus on the pastries behind the glass counter, the blonde woman's reflection crossed the high street north towards the docks. I spun back around to watch her.

"Lady, I got shit to do," the kid complained, voice cracking. His attitude struck me with an old familiarity.

"Aspetta, babbu," I shushed him, but the woman disappeared behind another building. "Minchia, Mico, you talk to all your old babysitters like that?"

When I turned back around, a smile of recognition spread over his face. "Mac?"

"Kirby McKinley," Dom's voice boomed from a shadow that spanned the width of the back hall. As he emerged, he tore his white apron off and tossed it on a rack behind the counter. A cloud of flour dusted his jet black hair. "You really gonna sneak into my pasticceria and tell my kid off before coming back to say hello first?"

He scooped me into a hug, apologizing for the flour, but I didn't care. It was good to see him. Even long before Artemisia and I became a thing, he always made sure I had something in my stomach before school whether I had the cash or not. Mostly not. From behind the counter, Mico gave me a fist bump. I hadn't seen the kid since he came up to my waist.

"Shit, he grew up fast," I laughed, having to look up at him now.

"Well, you've been abroad for some time," Dom replied. "What's it been, seven—"

"I heard you went to prison and started a lesbian gang," Mico interrupted loudly with a shit-eating grin.

"Stati zitto, ciuccio." Dom pinched his son's arm and shoved him back down the hall into the kitchen.

"I wish, Mico," I laughed. "Shit, what else are people saying?"

"Ignore him. When I prayed to the Madonna for a son, I forgot he'd inevitably become a teenager." Dom turned back to me and reached into the glass cabinet to continue filling my bag with pastries. "How are ya, Kirby? Ya look good. Maybe on the skinny side, but you and Artie were always so..." His eyes darted back down to the case. "Sorry, now I'm the chooch. I don't mean to bring her up, she's just been on my mind a lot lately, what with her show over there. And now seein' you, I forget she's—"