They were mostly family pictures—some recent, some from her childhood, some vintage shots in black and white—but she also had a couple travel photos too. I could tell she’d been to Italy at least once, and it looked like she’d been to Paris and London as well.
Taking a snapshot of Bianca and her immediate family at what might have been her high school graduation off the shelf, I studied it. She looked much the same at eighteen as she did fifteen years later—same black-framed glasses, same wide-mouthed grin, same smooth, bright complexion and fiery hair. She definitely looked like her mom. Bianca DeRossi was an Italian name, but the actual Bianca looked about as Irish as a person could be. I made a mental note to crack a few leprechaun jokes at some point.
“You get lost?”
I turned to see Bianca in the doorway. “Just snooping in your office. Making sure you’re not a secret psychopath.”
“I don’t keep the bodies in my office, Enzo. Give me a little credit.”
Smiling, I set the frame back on the shelf. “You like traveling, huh?”
“Love it. It’s where I get all my design inspiration.”
“What’s your favorite place? I should probably know this stuff about you.”
“Good point.” She came around the desk and stood next to me. She smelled like garlic and tomato sauce, which was actually kind of sexy. “I’d say Florence. No, the Amalfi Coast. No, maybe Capri.”
I nodded. “I like a woman who gives a straight answer.”
She poked my shoulder. “At least they’re all in one country. What about you?”
“I like Italy too. I’d say Rome or Florence, for the architecture.”
“What do you know, we agree on something. If we were going on a real honeymoon, we could have gone to Italy.”
“Who’s that?” I pointed at one of the black and white photographs—a wedding picture, from the looks of it.
“Oh, those are Grandma Vinnie’s parents—my great-grandparents. Their last name was Lupo. They were married in 1923.”
I studied the couple. “So that’s your great-grandmother? You look like her.”
“You’re just saying that because she’s short. Everyone called her Tiny too. That’s where my nickname comes from.”
I laughed. “It’s not just because she’s short. It’s her face too. The heart shape of it.” Bianca had a more lush mouth, but I didn’t feel like that was something I could say.
“She had red hair too,” Bianca said. “I mean, she died when I was only three, so I don’t remember her, and her hair was white by then anyway, but I’ve heard stories about her. Apparently, she was a real pistol.”
“Oh yeah?” I gave her a sideways grin, nudging her with my elbow. “Your namesake was a pistol? There’s a surprise.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “Do you know any family history?”
“Very little,” I admitted. “I should ask my parents about it. Apparently my great-grandfather, the one I’m named for, was into some sinister business. Mobster stuff.”
“That’s funny, because mine was too. They both were,” Bianca said, gesturing at the old wedding photo. “They ran whisky into Detroit from Canada during Prohibition.”
“Seriously?” I looked at the petite woman and her short, barrel-chested husband. There was something sly about the smiles on their faces. “That’s pretty cool. My great-grandfather lived in Detroit too. Maybe they knew each other.”
Bianca laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something? Come on, let’s have coffee and dessert. I’ve got a sweet tooth.”
“Good to know,” I said, following her from the room and trying not to look at her cute round butt in her tight jeans.
Sinister business indeed.
“What’s that?” I said, eyeing the pad of paper and pen she’d placed on the island along with two cups of coffee and a plate of pizzelle sprinkled with powdered sugar.
“That’s for us to draw up the most important rules of our deal. I figure we don’t need everything in writing, maybe just the top five things.” She sipped her coffee, then she picked up the pen. “I’ll go first. No sex,” she said, writing it down in all caps, as if I’d been pawing her all night.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
“With anyone,” she went on, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Not as long as we’re married. I don’t want it going around that you’re cheating on me.”
“Well, I don’t want it going around that I’m a cheater.”
“Good, then we agree,” she said breezily, picking up a cookie and taking a bite.
Aggravated at the thought of a yearlong dry spell, I grabbed a cookie too. I wasn’t much of a sweets eater, but I did like pizzelle. “Did you make these?”
“Yes.”
“They’re good.”
“Thank you. Okay, what’s your top rule?”
I thought for a minute, taking another bite. “Don’t nag me.”
“What?”
“My mother is always on my dad about every little thing—he got the floor dirty, he left the seat up, he forgot their anniversary, he didn’t make the dinner reservation, the volume on the TV is too loud . . .” I shook my head. “It’s like a constant stream of criticism.”
“Fair enough. No nagging,” she wrote down.
“Add something else to that,” I said, finishing my first cookie and taking another one. “Add that if something is really bothering you, you’re going to tell me what it is and not expect me to guess at it like a mind reader. Like, you won’t go into a room and slam the door and make me wonder what I did wrong or what you’re upset about.”
She gave me a look but did what I asked. “Item two A, no mind-reading expectations.”
“Okay, what’s next?” I asked, brushing the powdered sugar off my hands on my pants.
Bianca thought for a moment. “We have to be able to trust each other. So no lying.”
“Agreed. And no giving away the secret to anyone,” I said seriously. “No one else can know about this.”
She looked guilty. “I told my sister.”
“You what!”
“I told my sister, Ellie. But we can trust her,” she went on. “Look, we’re going to need support from people close to us. And I felt like Ellie was going to see through it anyway. Pick one friend or one of your siblings to tell.”
Frowning, I thought it over as I took a sip of coffee. My siblings were out—they were shit at keeping secrets. And choosing one of my three best guy friends would be tough. I’d been close to Griffin Dempsey, Cole Mitchell, and Beckett Weaver since middle school. They were like brothers to me. All of them would be supportive of me, no matter what—although they’d all think this was fucking nuts. “I can’t choose between my friends,” I said.
“How many are we talking?”
“Three.”
She frowned. “That’s too many. Put their names in a hat.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” She flipped to a new sheet of paper. “Who are they?”