Smiling, we size each other up. DeFiore looks like a fast-talking, low-level hitman. His oily hair, frayed jacket, and battered shoes suggest strip-mall storefronts and envelopes full of cash. But his eyes are ultra-cool as he studies my face.

I wave to Lawrence and Nate. “Over here!”

“Cassie was right,” Lawrence says as he approaches. “I wasn’t sure it was you.” He shakes DeFiore’s hand. “Lawrence Quinn. This is Nate, my older son. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“You were probably hoping I was someone else.” DeFiore gives Lawrence a once-over. “Maybe someone in a bowtie and wingtips.”

“You met Burt, I gather,” Lawrence says. “He’s a bit stuffy.”

DeFiore nods. “This morning, on video. I met your wife, too, but only to say hello. I had to rush off.” He gestures to his plate. “Apologies for digging in, but my kid will kill me if I miss one more soccer game. Please.” He motions to empty chairs. “Sit.”

We settle in and make small talk. While we try to flag down a waitress, DeFiore finishes his eggs, a blueberry muffin, and a buttered bagel. He eats ravenously, as if filling a bottomless pit. I marvel at the way he relishes his food. No one I know, not even my brothers, eats with that kind of abandon. As for me, every bite I take demands penance.

“So, what can you tell us about Billy?” Lawrence asks just as a ponytailed waitress appears with a notepad. “You guys ready?” She gravitates immediately to Nate and offers a sweet smile. “What can I get you?”

Nate smiles back. He gives her dazzling teeth, dimples—the full-court press, and the girl’s face reddens. “Pancakes, please,” he says. His eyes flicker to her breasts where a nametag is clipped. “Amanda. Bacon and coffee.” Like our father, Nate considers every encounter with a female an opportunity to showcase his charm.

“I’ll have coffee too, Amanda,” Lawrence says. “Two eggs scrambled dry. Orange juice. Oh—no toast, please. Cutting out carbs.” He gestures my way. “She’ll have egg whites. Dry toast. Tomatoes, no potatoes. Black coffee.”

“Seriously?” I snap after she leaves. “I can order for myself, thanks.”

He chuckles self-consciously. “Sorry, Cass. Old habits.”

DeFiore is watching us. “Hard to see them grow up, isn’t it, Lar?”

I’ve never heard anyone call Lawrence “Lar” in my life, and the absurdity of it cracks me up. DeFiore gives me a cocky grin. I like him, I decide. He knows what’s what.

“You have a daughter?” I hear Lawrence ask.

“Three, actually.” DeFiore sips his coffee. “Six, four, and two. The six-year-old runs the show.”

“They’re little,” Lawrence says. “You still have a few good years left.”

I turn to DeFiore. “At ten, we’re lovely. Around thirteen, we get moody. By sixteen, we’re monstrous. Defiant, uncontrollable, and mean as hell.”