Vendetta (Blood for Blood #1)(40)

My mother smiled and took a sip of her Chardonnay. “Speaking of the diner, I wanted to talk to you about that …”

I let my attention fall on Gino and Dom again — or rather, on the backs of their heads — and wondered about the odds of us being at the same restaurant. It was miles away from Cedar Hill, right in the center of Chicago, and since it was one of the best restaurants in the city, it was more of an eye-wateringly expensive, special occasion kind of place. The karma gods must have been enjoying the show.

At least Nic and Luca weren’t with their brothers. I tried to remind myself of how horrible Nic had been the other night, but it was difficult to forget all the other things about him: the softer, funnier, kinder things. The way he smiled, the way he had pressed his lips against mine … the way he drove away from me in the middle of the night without a second glance. I flinched.

“Sophie?”

“What?” I took another bite of my quiche Lorraine, wondering why I had ordered it. Then again, I didn’t understand the majority of the fancy menu and I wasn’t convinced I would enjoy “truffle-infused fries” as much as normal ones.

“I want to talk to you about the diner.”

“OK, shoot.”

Behind my mother, Gino was recoiling from something the bald man sitting across from him had said. Dom sat on his brother’s right and there was a narrow, taller man on his left, his back half-turned to me. It was Felice — I would have wagered my meal. Even though they were at the other side of the restaurant, curled around one another in a secluded corner booth, the faint smell of honey was hanging in the air. I was sure of it. Or I was going crazy.

I averted my eyes.

My mother was still talking, her hands flailing animatedly in front of her. “… placed unfair expectations on you. You need to get out more and spread your wings, don’t you think?”

A buzzing sound tugged at my attention. A bee had found its way inside the restaurant and was circling the table next to us.

“Get out of where?” I asked, dragging my gaze back to my table and scolding myself for being so distractible. I could still see it, though — a small blur of yellow and black in my peripheral vision.

“The diner.”

I jabbed my fork into my quiche. “What about the diner?”

The man I didn’t recognize got up from the Priestly table. He was tall and bald, with a high forehead and a thick black mustache that dominated his angular face. He grunted as he passed a waitress, and then disappeared through the restroom doors.

“I think you should quit. It’s too taxing on your energy and you barely have any free time.”

Now that I had heard it in its entirety, I was surprised by her suggestion. I set my fork down and swallowed the mouthful of quiche in one overzealous gulp. “But it’s Dad’s. I thought the whole plan was for me to run it until he gets back.” I didn’t know why I was fighting against her idea — the thought of running the diner when I turned eighteen had never excited me; I had always known it wasn’t my calling.

The bee whizzed past my face, missing my nose by an inch. My mother dropped her fork and released a small yelp.

“Sorry,” she explained sheepishly, regaining her composure. “They always give me such a fright.”

“I think bees are kind of cute,” I said, trying to put her at ease.

Across the restaurant, the bee was zigzagging toward the Priestly table. Probably returning to its “master,” I thought, registering the back of Felice’s silver head again.

“What’s going on with you today? You’re all over the place.” My mother grabbed my wrist, tugging at me.

“Sorry.” I shook my head in a futile attempt to settle my wandering attention, and pulled my hand back. “What were you saying?”

“Why not let your uncle continue to manage the diner after you graduate next year, until your father comes back. That way you can give college your undivided attention — and go to school in Chicago instead of staying here in the burbs. There’s a whole world out there, you know.”

I shoveled another forkful of quiche into my mouth. “I’m still saving for a car. I need the money,” I said ineptly, covering my mouth as I chewed.

I flicked my gaze again. The bald, mustached man had come back from the restroom and was rejoining the Priestly table, sitting down with an audible grunt.

“I can give you a little cash every week to put toward a car. You wouldn’t even miss the tips from the diner,” my mother was protesting.

“I don’t want to put that strain on you,” I said, my mouth still half-full. “I know we don’t have that kind of money anymore.”

My mother pushed a square of feta cheese around her plate with her fork. “Sophie, I’d really prefer it if you left.”

“Did Uncle Jack say something to you? Have you heard from him?” I was starting to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach again. My mother was acting strange, like just about everyone else in my life.

“No, but maybe we should put some distance between you two. He seems a little more unhinged than usual lately.”

“I think he’d take it pretty badly if I ditched him now. Especially after his friend just died.”

She shrugged and skewered a thin slice of red onion, popping it into her mouth. “Jack’s not even around anymore. And he can’t always get what he wants.”