CHAPTER FOURTY- ONE
KIERAN
The pastry shop on Fifth Avenue had been open since 1952, family owned for three generations, known for making the best cannoli in the city. I'd noticed Melinda eyeing their window display two weeks ago when we'd driven past, the way her face had lit up before she'd quickly looked away.
She never asked for anything. Never requested treats or gifts or anything that would draw attention to what she actually wanted. But I'd been paying attention, cataloging the small things that made her happy.
I pulled up outside the shop at four thirty, my meeting with the Bianchi family having wrapped up earlier than expected. The exhaustion from a full day of negotiations sat heavy in my bones but the thought of seeing Melinda's face when I presented her with a box of cannol
