Frankie Jr. cleared his throat. “So, Graham, would you care for some coffee?”
Frankie Jr. What a nice boy. So mannerly for a shark. So hospitable toward the man who had screwed his sister then not bothered to call her like he’d said he would. So welcoming to the man who would take over the family business. Did Frankie even know he extended the hand of politeness to the wolf who would eat them?
“No, thanks,” Graham said. Everyone’s attention was on him. But not Tess’s. She was busy pretending Graham wasn’t intruding on her family Easter dinner.
Why in the hell was he here anyway? Why on God’s green earth had her father invited him to a family meal? If she didn’t know her father better, she’d think it was designed to rub her nose in the mess he’d made of their relationship. But while her father was many things, he wasn’t a total bastard. No way he invited Graham to needle her. He had other reasons.
Silence sat among them. Even Joseph, impeccable surgeon able to withstand excruciating ten-hour surgeries with a steady hand, squirmed in his chair.
Finally Beth smiled. “So, Graham. Frank told us you have a daughter who is close to our girls’ age.” Not a question but an invitation.
“Emily. She’s seven and with her mother today. I’m actually on my way over to her house to take Em her Easter basket. Frank asked me to stop by and meet his wife. I had no idea the entire family would be here. I hate to interrupt.”
His words were softly spoken, like an apology meant for Tess. But instead of soothing her, they made her angry. She didn’t need his damn pity. If her father wanted Graham here for their family get-together and if he wanted Graham to take over their family business, fine. Tess had no say. If she had, she wouldn’t be stabbing her cannoli, trying not to launch herself on the floor and pitch a temper tantrum the way Max had at the last family dinner.
Self-control—hadn’t she told Graham it wasn’t her strong suit? So he’d been forewarned if she launched herself at him and clawed his eyes out.
Her anger must have crackled because Michael picked up the knife nearest her hand and moved it. Tess glared at him, and he shrugged.
“So you’re the fellow who stole Tess’s job?” Granny B piped up, tackling the cannoli one of the twins had set in front of her.
Tess shot Granny B a fierce look designed to zip lips, but, of course, Granny B didn’t give a flying fig whom she offended. Never had.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t steal anything,” Graham said, nodding his thanks at Joseph who had so thoughtfully brought him a chair.
“Frank gave you control of his business, control of the empire he built from a scrap of nothing into something that paid for this house, my house and a trip to Italy last year. He trusts you. He gave you what he’d give a son.”
“But not a daughter,” Tess said before she could stop herself. Setting down her fork, she glanced at her father. He looked miserable. Good. And ironically, Graham sat to his right, also looking miserable. Doubly good.
“Tess,” her father breathed, shaking his head. “Let’s not do this now. I invited Graham over for coffee and dessert last week, before our kerfuffle. This is not the time or place.”
“Kerfuffle? Oh, that’s what you call it, huh?” She looked over at her irascible grandmother. “You ready to go, Granny B?”
“Nope,” the older woman said, picking up a piece of cannoli and popping it into her mouth. “This is like watching one of my stories… only better.”
“Mother.” Frank cast a cautionary glance to his mother.
“Frank,” she replied in the same voice, pursing her lips, a vicious gleam in her eyes. “You set this in motion. Did you think your daughter would let it slide? She’s a good girl, but she’s an Ullo.”
Tess pushed away from the table. She couldn’t do this anymore. “Mikey, take Granny B home for me, ’kay?”
For a priest, Michael knew enough about a woman not to make a fuss when she meant business. He nodded and went back to his dessert as if it were more important than saving sinners.
Tess didn’t bother saying goodbye. She walked toward the living room where she’d left her purse, her sandaled feet soft on the carpet—yet another time when she could have used the angry staccato of heels to drive her point home.
Damn it.
Scooping up her clutch, she