🥣 The Bowl of Soup That Exposed the Mafia Boss’s Fiancée

Chapter 07 - Saint Michael’s Kitchen

We reached Saint Michael the Archangel at three in the morning.

Churches look different after midnight. Less like sanctuary, more like memory. The stone steps were wet. A single yellow light burned above the side entrance. Somewhere in the alley, a bottle rolled in the wind.

Luca walked beside me, not touching me, close enough that anyone watching would know I was not alone.

“You can stay in the car,” he said.

“You can stop offering things I’m not going to take.”

He glanced down at me.

“You speak differently when you’re frightened.”

“How?”

“More honestly.”

I hated that because it was true.

Inside, the basement kitchen smelled of old coffee, bleach, and onions. Stainless-steel counters lined the walls. Folding tables leaned in stacks near a pantry door. A woman in a gray sweater appeared from the office, holding a baseball bat as if it had disappointed her before.

When she saw Luca, she did not lower it.

“Absolutely not.”

He stopped.

“Sister Agnes.”

“Don’t you Sister Agnes me. I told you years ago, no business in this kitchen.”

I looked at Luca.

“You know a nun?”

“She knew my mother.”

“I knew his mother,” Sister Agnes corrected. “I tolerated him.”

Luca’s mouth almost moved.

“We need to find Marco Bellini.”

The bat lowered an inch.

Sister Agnes looked at me.

“And who are you?”

“Emma Carter.”

Her face changed.

Not much. Enough.

“James Carter’s girl.”

“Everyone seems to know my family except me tonight.”

The nun sighed as if I had said something both sad and inconvenient.

She led us into the office and unlocked a drawer. From it she removed a shoebox full of index cards and old photographs.

“Your mother brought you here when you were little,” she said to me. “You used to sit under the table sorting plastic spoons by color.”

I did not remember.

She found a photograph and slid it across the desk.

A young man stood in the soup kitchen doorway, thin, dark-haired, eyes lowered. Beside him stood Mrs. Moretti, holding his hand in both of hers.

“That’s Marco,” Sister Agnes said.

Luca studied the photo.

“How long ago?”

“Six years.”

“Where is he now?”

She looked at him over the rims of her glasses.

“If I tell you, will he end up in the river?”

Luca did not flinch.

“No.”

“Your word used to mean violence.”

“My word means what I decide it means.”

The nun held his gaze.

Then she nodded once.

“Marco comes every Thursday to unload donations. Quiet man. Good with the older ones. Terrible liar.”

“Does he know who he is?” I asked.

Sister Agnes’s eyes softened.

“He knows enough to hurt.”

She opened another folder. Inside were copies of letters from Mrs. Moretti to my father. Caterina had been searching for Marco, trying to undo what the Bellinis buried. She believed Salvatore Bellini was using Vanessa’s marriage to Luca as a way to regain Moretti assets through blood claims.

“That makes no sense,” I said. “Vanessa is already his daughter.”

“Not all claims are legal,” Luca said.

Sister Agnes tapped the folder.

“Caterina thought there was a second will. Luca’s father left certain properties only to blood descendants who had not participated in organized violence. If Marco exists and can be controlled, he could be used as leverage. If Luca marries Vanessa, Bellini gains proximity to both lines.”

The room went cold.

“Where is Marco staying?” Luca asked.

Before Sister Agnes could answer, the back door slammed open.

A man staggered into the kitchen, soaked from the rain, one hand pressed to his ribs.

I recognized him from the photograph before anyone spoke.

Marco Bellini lifted his eyes to Luca.