Dante
A few days later, I stride through the quiet main floor of Piacere a few hours before opening with Tony at my side.
“So, this is it, then,” he says. “You’ve finally lost it.”
I chuckle. “I haven’t lost it. You’re just not seeing the whole picture.”
“Oh, okay.” He holds his hands up sarcastically. “No, you’re right, please tell me what I’m not seeing in plain sight, Dante. Turn a Greek Schoolgirl into a Staten Island Saint? Is she ex-FBI, or a ninja, or?”
I slug him in the arm. “You’re a douche. She’s something Luca Lombardi wants, something he doesn’t know we still have.”
Talking about Eleni like this feels wrong, but Tony’s been on my ass since I told him in the car on the way back from the restaurant, and I’m tired of having this argument. At least, if he understands her as a
