it down in a sudden, unavoidable flood.
“Mr. Testa?” The nurse’s voice. “Your daughter is here to see you.”
“Daughter?” he repeated, voice weak. “Lucia?”
For a few seconds, the steadfast beeping of Enzo’s cardiac monitor was the only sound on the planet. Then I silently wished myself luck and stepped up to the bedrail.
“How are you, Papa?” I said in clear English, then quickly switched to quiet Italian: “I said you were my father so they would let me in here. Is that all right with you, sir?”
The corners of Enzo’s mouth lifted. “Hello, daughter,” he croaked in English, strong enough for the nurse to hear. Like me (and more than a few Italians) the man obviously believed that rules were made to be broken.
With relief I leaned over the rail and kissed his colorless cheek. Despite the oxygen tube taped under his nose and the IV snaking into the bulging blue vein in his hand, Enzo’s eyes appeared clear, a miracle considering everything he’d been through.
He patted me on the cheek, and the nurse walked away. She’d already explained that his lungs were strained from the toxic fumes he’d inhaled, and his heartbeat had become erratic. Further tests were needed to pinpoint the problem.
I knew how important this interview was. None of the fire marshals had come around yet to question Enzo. If he died before they spoke with him, they might just pin the arson on him, which meant the real perpetrator would get away with murder.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Clare,” Enzo rasped. “When everything went boom, Blanche was worried only about you and your friend. How are they doing?”
“The ER is getting ready to release Madame. How are you feeling?”
“Me? I’m about ready to run the New York City Marathon.” Enzo laughed, but it quickly degenerated into a weak cough. “How is your artist friend?”
“Dante was hit on the head, so they’re holding him overnight for observation.” I summoned a tight smile, still worried about my artista barista. “You know, before the fire, he was admiring your mural . . .”
Enzo nodded, eyes glistening as my voice trailed off. “I’m afraid he was the last to admire it . . .” He coughed again. “I still want to meet your friend, see his work maybe?”
“You will, I promise.” I touched the man’s hand. His graciousness, despite his condition, was moving—and made me all the more determined to nail the monster who’d put him here, destroying his art in the process.
“Has anyone called your daughter yet?”
Enzo shook his head. “No. I don’t want that. What happened at the shop is enough of a shock without this, too . . .” He touched the IV tube in his arm. “I feel like a slab of veal.”
“Let me call Lucia,” I replied, reaching for my cell. “I can do it right now—”
“No,” Enzo said. “She looked forward to this weekend for a month. I might be out of here by tomorrow; then nobody has to call.”
I wasn’t comfortable with Enzo’s choice, but when I checked my cell phone’s screen, I saw there was no reception in the ICU.
“I hate being in this place,” Enzo said, eyes spearing the IV bag above. “I want to retire, go back to Italy to be with my two sisters . . . visit my Angela’s grave every Sunday . . .”
Retire to Italy? Back at the caffè, Enzo hadn’t once mentioned retirement. But then I considered the timing of his call to Madame, unearthing that photo album and wanting to give the Blend back its old roaster. Was that the reason he’d been cleaning out his basement? Had he been planning on moving back to the old country? If Enzo innocently revealed his plans to the fire marshals, what were they going to think?
I leaned closer. “What about the caffè, signore? Who is going to run your business?”
“Lucia,” Enzo replied. “When I leave this country, I’m signing it all over to my daughter. That was always the plan. Now my daughter’s going to have to rebuild . . . if she wants to.”
“You sound doubtful. Why is that? Don’t you think she’ll have the funds to give it a go?”
“It’s not the money. There’s plenty of insurance coverage on the building—”
(Exactly what I suspected.) “So what’s the problem, then?”
Enzo sighed, stared off into space. “My Angela . . . she was such a beauty . . .”
“Your wife, Angela?”
“We met in the park, in the spring . . .”
Enzo smiled weakly, turned his gaze back to