Page 72 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
“Who is Ernie?” I ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “No one. Just a fucking hassle. Not related to this.”
But I don’t believe him. He’s holding something back. He knows something that he doesn’t want me to know.
“Roman,” I press, but Vincenzo interrupts.
“There was one other thing. Your mother had a notebook. Red leather. She always carried it with her.”
My breath catches. “I remember that notebook. My father said it was lost when she died.”
“No,” Vincenzo says firmly. “The police collected it from the scene. Your father asked about it afterward.”
“Did Blackwood show you that?” Roman asks with an edge to his tone. Like he’s wanting to point out that I haven’t been given all the information.
“No,” I admit. “Maybe it’s not important. Maybe he doesn’t have it if the police have it.”
“Thank you, Vincenzo,” Roman says, standing abruptly. “We should go.”
“Of course. Give Angelica a hug from Uncle Vinny, would you? I miss singing songs with her.”
Roman laughs. “I will. Thank you again.”
I slump back against the leather seat as Roman pulls away from Vincenzo's house, disappointment settling heavily in my chest.
All that anticipation, all that hope—for what?
A vague story about my mother being “agitated” and some missing notebook the police supposedly took.
“That was a waste of time,” I mutter.
Roman glances at me. “You don't think what he said was useful?”
“Useful?” I turn to face him. “He didn't tell us anything concrete. Just rumors and secondhand observations. My mother was meeting a strange man. She was agitated. She had a notebook. None of that tells us who killed her.”
“Sometimes the pieces don't make sense until you have more of them,” Roman says, his voice maddeningly calm.
I cross my arms. “I've been collecting 'pieces' for a year, Roman. I'm tired of cryptic half-answers and maybes.”
The truth is, I'd been hoping for something definitive, a name, a motive, something I could grab onto.
Instead, I got more questions.
Who was my mother meeting that day? Why would a notebook matter? And why did Roman suddenly look like he'd seen a ghost when Vincenzo mentioned Ernie?
I glance at Roman, who is pensive as he drives. I can't shake the feeling that he’s connecting dots I can't see.
“What aren't you telling me?” I ask directly.
His eyes remain fixed on the road. “Nothing.”
“You know something.”
Roman's jaw tightens. “I know lots of things, but not about this.”
He’s lying, and it’s surprising how much that hurts.
We drive in silence over the bridge into Manhattan, a familiar sense of helplessness creeping back in.
