Niccolò Moretti showed up on a Thursday with a bakery box under his arm and a smile that seemed to arrive in the room before he did.

"You must be the miracle worker," he said, setting the box on the kitchen island. "I'm Nico. The family's black sheep. Or the family's best-looking member, depending on who you ask."

He was Rico's cousin—younger by four or five years, lean where Rico was broad, with the same dark hair worn longer and the easy charm of a man who had never once been told no and believed it.

"Clara," she said.

"I know. Everybody knows." He flipped open the box. Cannoli, a dozen of them, dusted with powdered sugar. "From Villabate. Elena's favorite. I thought the little man might like them."

"That's kind of you."

"I'm a kind guy." He winked. "Where is he?"

"Napping."

"Then I'll wait."

He waited by eating two cannoli himself and asking Clara a stream of questions so light and friendly she barely noticed how many there were. Where was she from? Sunset Park? Great tacos. Did she like the house? How was Rico treating her? Was he sleeping? Did he still work late in his study? Did he still keep the same men on the door?

It was the last question that made her pause.

"I wouldn't know," Clara said. "I don't pay attention to the men on the door."

Nico laughed. "Smart girl."

When Leo woke up, Clara brought him to the kitchen. He saw Nico and stopped in the doorway.

"Hey, buddy!" Nico spread his arms wide. "Look what Uncle Nico brought!"

Leo didn't move.

"Come on, little man. Cannoli. Your favorite."

Leo's hand found the hem of Clara's shirt and twisted it.

"He's still waking up," Clara said. "Give him a minute."

"Sure, sure." Nico's smile didn't waver. But he didn't lower his arms, either. He stood there holding them open, waiting, as if Leo's reluctance were a joke they were all in on.

Then he crossed the kitchen in three easy strides and scooped Leo up.

Leo shrieked.

It wasn't the angry scream from the restaurant. It was high and thin and terrified. His body went rigid, arms stiff, legs kicking.

"Put him down," Clara said.

"He's fine. He's just being dramatic—"

"Put him down."

Nico looked at her. For a split second, the smile slipped, and Clara saw something underneath it—something flat and cold and calculating.

Then the smile was back. He set Leo on the floor.

"Jeez. Okay. Rules of the house, I get it." He held up his hands. "Rico told me about your little rules."

Leo ran behind Clara's legs and pressed his face into the back of her knee. He was shaking.

Clara crouched, keeping her body between him and the island. "Hey. Hey. You're okay. Nobody's going to pick you up. Breathe with me."

It took four minutes for Leo to stop shaking.

Nico watched the whole time. He ate a third cannoli.

"Kids, huh?" he said when it was over. "Elena spoiled him."

Clara straightened slowly.

"He's three," she said. "He's allowed to say no."

"Sure he is." Nico brushed powdered sugar from his fingers and picked up his keys. "Tell my cousin I stopped by. Tell him I'll see him Saturday."

He left the cannoli on the counter.

Leo wouldn't look at them.

After the front door closed, Rosa came in from the laundry room, where Clara suspected she had been standing the whole time. She looked at the bakery box. She looked at Leo, still clinging to Clara's leg.

Then she picked up the box, carried it to the trash, and dropped it in without a word.

"Rosa," Clara said slowly. "Is Leo always like that with him?"

Rosa wiped her hands on her apron. "Since the funeral," she said. "Before, he loved Uncle Nico. Nico would throw him in the air. Leo would laugh and laugh." She shook her head. "After, the little one hides. Every time."

"Did anyone notice?"

"Everyone noticed. Everyone said, poor baby, he's afraid of all men now." Rosa's mouth tightened. "But he was never afraid of Dante the way he is afraid of Nico. Dante, he only bit."

She turned back toward the laundry room. At the door, she paused.

"Mrs. Moretti never liked those cannoli," she said quietly. "She said they were too sweet. Nico never knew her as well as he pretended."

---

That night, after Rico had read Goodnight Moon in three different voices and Leo had fallen asleep with the cinnamon jar clutched in one hand, Clara found him in the study.

"Your cousin came by," she said.

"Rosa told me." Rico didn't look up from the papers on his desk. "He said you were very protective."

"He picked Leo up without asking."

"Nico's not used to rules."

"Leo was terrified, Rico. Not upset. Terrified. Like he was with Dante at the restaurant, but worse."

Now Rico looked up.

"Leo's terrified of everyone," he said slowly. "You've seen it."

"Not like that." Clara hesitated. "He's not scared of Dante anymore. He's not scared of Rosa. He was scared of your mother, but that was different—that was shyness. With Nico..." She searched for the words. "It was like he recognized something."

Rico set down his pen.

"Nico is my cousin," he said. "He was at the hospital the night Elena died. He carried her casket. He's been in Leo's life since the day he was born."

"I know. I'm just telling you what I saw."

"What you saw," Rico said, "was a little boy who doesn't like being grabbed. You told me that yourself, on the first night."

Clara opened her mouth. Closed it.

He was right. Of course he was right.

But as she climbed the stairs to her room, she kept seeing that moment in the kitchen—the smile slipping, the cold flat thing beneath it—and she couldn't make herself believe it.

---