Or what Nick had always called "breakfast-for-lunch."

As kids they'd loved it when Mama Lou had made pancakes or waffles for dinner. It had seemed silly and strange, her willingness to do simple things that had made them all happy. He could still remember the day he'd asked her why they were having pancakes for dinner instead of the package of chicken she'd thawed out in the fridge, and she'd told him it was because he'd asked.

Even at a young age, he'd been blown away by the simple generosity.

When she took them in, she'd showed them how much she cared in any number of ways. He, Fender, and Nick were each given their own bedrooms, each picking out various items for their rooms. They'd chosen backpacks and some clothes, and they'd even gotten to pick out a few video games for the console she'd purchased.

But it had been the food that had always stuck with him. It had been food that had made them a family, that simple daily ritual of sharing a meal. Some nights Mrs. W. made it down as well, and others she spent with her own family. But it was in the practice of sitting together, each and every day, that they'd become a family of their own.

A wave from the bar-one of his mother's clients-pulled him back to the here and now. Although he thought of his childhood often, he knew the latest events had churned up the old memories even more. Which made it that much more ironic how new, powerful memories of Daphne seemed to blend and weave in with the old.

Although Brooklyn was a large, thriving city all on its own, its various neighborhoods managed to give it a small-town feel at the same time. He knew his neighbors, and he was a part of their lives as they were a part of his. Yet until the past week, he'd never met Daphne.

He knew of her-or more so the fact that the Rossi boys had a younger sister-but he'd never really known her.

Now that he did, he had no idea how he'd missed her all these years.

She hadn't come back last night, her late text saying she was still at the precinct, ensuring they wouldn't continue what they'd begun that morning. He wanted her with a fire that seemed unquenchable, but in the end he supposed he was relieved.

Fender's arrival had been a balm he didn't even know he'd needed. And the crying jag-well, he'd put that one in the vault, and knew his brother would do the same.

A slight headache had dogged him all morning, but the waffles and bacon headed his way would provide the restorative he needed.

He didn't make it over to the old neighborhood for lunch all that often anymore. With the demands of his job it was easier to order in to the office or run somewhere in DUMBO for a quick sandwich. Lately, more often than not, he was headed to client meetings or entertaining prospective clients over lunch.

That was one of the clearest signs he was an adult, and it had managed to sneak up on him. He had clients. Actual people who paid him to make shit up on his computer. He'd come a long way since that first ThinkPad he'd gotten on his thirteenth birthday.

Yet no matter how far he'd come, there were days he still felt like that thirteen-year-old kid, desperately trying to go by unnoticed.

He grabbed the iPad he'd nestled next to his leg on the vinyl seat and flipped open the cover. His zombie game was in prototype, and he wanted to run a few sims through the tablet to see how the game progressed between the eighth and ninth levels. That level-up had been a sticking point, and he thought he finally had it figured out.

The noise around him faded as he focused on the creatures, already in a state of powerfully wicked decay. Despite the loss of various limbs, they were as strong as ever, taking over the weakest players with a sort of gleeful mania. Each life they took made them stronger, and he wanted to make sure the sense of menace and danger really came through to the player.

The graphics on his latest-generation iPad were outstanding, and he was pleased to see a recent modification he'd asked of one of his designers came through with sparkling clarity.

He was lost in the game and it was only the thud on the table of a heavy diner plate bearing his waffle and bacon that finally had Landon coming back to the here and now.

"Looks gross." Vicki scanned the iPad just before the image winked out.

"That's the goal."

"Consider it met." Vicki snagged a small plate with a brownie on it as another waitress passed and set it down next to his lunch. "I'll bring the pot and top off your coffee."

Absurdly satisfied at the interest in his game, Landon picked up his fork, only to look up and find a pair of serious brown eyes staring him down.

"Mrs. Rossi." Landon scrambled to stand, extending a hand to Daphne's mother.

He might not have known Daphne, but there were few around the neighborhood who didn't know her mother. On reputation alone she was a force to be reckoned with.

With those dark eyes staring him down he knew and understood the respect that was required. "Please, join me."

He waved toward Vicki to bring a second cup of coffee. "Would you like any lunch?"

"I'm good, thank you." The tone was pert, but he saw the slightest softening in her gaze.

First test passed.

"My husband and I have a Fourth of July party every year. You will come with Daphne."

If he ever hoped to have sex with her again, there was no way he was selling Daphne out to her mother by telling Mrs. Rossi he hadn't been invited yet. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Good."

"What can I bring?"

"Daphne is bringing one of the desserts. You just come along." Landon held his tongue, but had no idea why Daphne's contribution somehow trumped his requirement to bring something.

"Can I help with the setup then?"

"No, it's-" Mrs. Rossi broke off, her gaze calculating. "My husband and sons botch up the wiring for the outdoor audio each year. Can you come over to help?"

"I'd be happy to."

"You know how to do that? Without losing sound or violating a noise ordinance?"

"I do."

"Good."

Second test passed.

Vicki set down the extra cup of coffee and topped of Landon's, shooting him a wink before she sauntered off.

"You like my Daphne?"

Whatever hurdles he thought he'd cleared, Landon knew his next few answers were critical.

"I like her very much."

"She's a good girl."

Hard to miss the glaring undertones in that one, but Landon pivoted, focused on what he saw each time he looked at Daphne Rossi. "She's an amazing woman. She's bright and interesting. She's dedicated. And she knows what she wants."

A gleam lit in the depths of those eyes so like Daphne's, and Landon continued.

"She's not afraid of a challenge. And she's not afraid to eat. I like that."

Mrs. Rossi frowned at the food reference, and Landon sensed it was on that note he'd finally overstepped. Thinking quickly, he added, "Speaking of food, I was fortunate enough to have your meatballs a few years ago. You sent them to the house for Emily Weston."

"Emily." Mrs. Rossi smiled. "Of course. She's doing well?"

"Back to normal and raising her usual ruckus." Landon took a sip of coffee. "I'll have you know I got smacked for stealing one too many."

"I'll have meatballs at the party. I make them a few days in advance. When you come over to fix the radio, I'll have a container for you."

"I didn't tell you I liked them so you'd give them to me."

"Of course not. You did it to soften me up." Mrs. Rossi stood up and walked around the table, planting a kiss on his cheek. Her words floated toward his ear, her voice whisper soft as she pulled away. "Well played."

Fourteen.

The soft strains of Beethoven-or he thought it was Beethoven-played in the background as Landon entered the Manhattan art gallery, trailing behind a determined Fender.

"Remind me why we're here again? You were vague on the phone."

"Recon I've been able to do says Reynolds's daughter works here."

"You dropped your usual Bitch before Reynolds," Landon pointed out.

"I have some class." Fender eyed him sideways. "This is a nice place."

"You have revenge in your eyes and methinks you want to play a game of quid pro quo."

"You know as well as I do the daughter's guilty until proven inno-" Fender broke off as a blonde bombshell straight out of a 1940s film noir walked into the main showroom. "Who is that?"

"I'd say that's your quid pro quo. Emphasis on the pro."

"Wow."

Landon couldn't quite contain his amusement as Fender stood stock still a few more moments before reluctantly pushing forward.

"Can I help you?" The woman was a knockout. She wore a fitted silk dress that nipped in at the waist, drawing the eye along her various curves. The dress was a vivid summer green, matched to a pair of sky-high heels that made a man sit up and take notice.

"Are you Harlow Reynolds?" Although the woman probably didn't notice, Landon heard the slightest hitch in his brother's voice.

Very un-Fender-like.

And for the first time in pretty much his entire life, Landon had the great, glorious, extraordinary joy of seeing his brother discomfited.

"I am." Wariness filled eyes the color of the Mediterranean before recognition snapped fully into place. "I can only guess why you're here. What has she done now?"

While Fender had avoided details-and Landon had agreed to join him without asking for them after the prior night's breakdown-the intention of the trip was fast becoming obvious.

"She's still threatening my family."

Harlow eyed the room and made a small gesture to another woman who'd slipped out from the back. "Could we move this to my office?"

Fender nodded, and in moments they were seated in a sleek, sparsely furnished office. Harlow's desk boasted about an acre of glass, but instead of taking a seat behind the monster, she gestured them both toward a small seating area.

"Your mother is Louisa Mills?"

"Yes." Fender nodded before sticking out a hand. "Fender Blackstone."

Landon quickly followed suit before they all settled into their seats. The image of quiet elegance and grace extended to their interaction. If Harlow Reynolds was nervous, it didn't show, and that flash of earlier wariness was nowhere in evidence as she took a seat. "I've only recently become aware of my mother's behavior. I can only apologize for it and assure you I'm committed to putting a stop to it."

"What has she told you?" Fender settled himself in the small chair, his T-shirt and jeans at odds with the subtle furnishings.

"Not much. But my mother rarely tells me anything, so that's not all that unusual."

"But you know who our mother is?" Landon probed, suddenly aware of his purpose. He would play straight man to Fender's bad boy. Simple. Easy. Comfortable roles they'd played their entire lives.

Except Fender wasn't quite himself. Where his brother ordinarily would have employed a casual slouch to deal with the situation, Fender sat up straight, his feet tucked firmly beneath the chair.

The urge to text Nick about Fender's weird behavior was nearly overpowering, but Landon held his place and waited for Harlow's answer.

"I know now. It took some digging and some serious pressing of my mother, but I got the basics."

"Your mother broke into Landon's business this past week. Then again yesterday."

The steady veneer broke, Harlow's shock betraying the calm facade. "She what? What's this about?"

"My business is in a loft in DUMBO. Last Wednesday morning I came in to find the office in disarray, but the only thing actually missing was two of my servers. Then they magically reappeared yesterday after someone broke in to put them back."

"And you think my mother's involved?"

"You tell us," Fender parried. "Her calling card was on top of the servers."

Daphne walked into Moe's and waited between the outer and inner doors so her eyes could adjust. She still hadn't gotten a callback from Amber McGee, and she wanted to close down that thread.

Or she at least hoped a conversation would close it down.

With the more obvious connection to Gretchen Reynolds, it increasingly looked like Landon's break-in had nothing to do with Amber McGee. Amber had told Landon as much, and questioning his birthmother felt exactly like the dead end that it was.

But she did have to formally close the loop. At least that's what she kept telling herself.

Daphne was still adjusting to the absence of light before she pushed on into the darkened interior. A light, jazzy tune accompanied the bar staff as they buzzed around getting ready for the dinner crowd.

"Sorry, we're still closed." One of the bartenders hollered over to her. His voice was firm but friendly.

Daphne headed toward him, her hand on her badge. She'd traded yesterday's dress for her more standard issue black slacks, white button-down, and a sporty suit jacket she'd gotten on sale at T.J. Maxx. While she wouldn't necessarily call it the height of fashion, it was professional enough for her to pass as part of the evening crowd.