Chapter 2 - THE BOY WHO REMEMBERED MY DEAD BROTHER
“Don't let her leave.”
Dante Moretti's command echoed through the ballroom.
Two security guards moved toward me.
I was still kneeling on the marble floor, with broken champagne glasses scattered around my knees and an eight-year-old boy trembling beside me.
“I'm not going anywhere,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “But please stop crowding him.”
One guard reached for my arm.
The boy made a frightened sound.
“Don't touch her!”
Everyone froze.
Dante looked sharply at his son.
The little boy had spoken only three words, but judging by his father's expression, they were three words he hadn't expected to hear.
“Matteo?”
The boy pressed his hands over his ears again.
I slowly moved my hand away from the broken glass.
“I'm Sophie,” I told him softly. “You don't have to talk.”
His eyes followed my fingers.
I tapped the marble four times.
This time, Matteo answered.
Four small taps against the leg of his chair.
My throat tightened.
That was exactly how Danny used to answer me.
Dante crouched beside us.
“Matteo, look at me.”
His son turned away.
Something painful crossed the powerful man's face.
For the first time, he looked less like New York's most feared mafia boss and more like a father who had no idea how to reach his child.
“Give him space,” I whispered.
Dante stared at me.
Then he stood.
“Everyone back.”
His guards immediately moved away.
I heard a woman mutter, “This is ridiculous. We're paying twenty thousand dollars a table to watch a waitress play therapist.”
I recognized her.
She was the woman in the silver gown who had called Matteo embarrassing.
Dante turned toward her.
“Mrs. Arden, you are welcome to leave.”
Her face went white.
Nobody laughed again.
Matteo slowly lowered one hand.
He studied my face with the serious concentration of a child trying to remember something important.
Then he reached inside his tuxedo jacket.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Four,” he whispered.
I nodded.
“Yes. Four.”
He unfolded the paper on his lap.
It was a child's drawing.
Two boys stood beside a red door.
One was small, wearing a black shirt.
The other was taller, wearing a blue coat.
Above them were four little blue squares.
My heart began pounding.
Danny had owned a blue coat.
He wore it almost every day during the last winter of his life.
But that could have been a coincidence.
Then I noticed something else.
The taller boy had a yellow scarf.
I had knitted Danny a yellow scarf for his twelfth birthday.
My hands started shaking.
“Matteo,” I whispered, “who is this?”
He touched the taller boy.
“Danny.”
The ballroom seemed to disappear.
I couldn't hear the music anymore.
I couldn't feel the broken glass beneath my knees.
All I could see was that drawing.
“Where did you hear that name?”
Matteo looked at me uncertainly.
Then he tapped four times.
Dante stepped closer.
“What did he say?”
I couldn't answer immediately.
My little brother had died three years earlier in a fire at Harbor House, a private support center for children with developmental disabilities.
The official report said Danny had wandered into a restricted corridor and became trapped after interfering with a door latch.
My family had never accepted that explanation.
Danny hated unfamiliar doors.
He was careful about rules.
And he had been terrified of fire alarms.
But nobody listened to us.
The center closed.
Its wealthy donors moved on.
And my brother became another tragedy people mentioned in speeches before forgetting.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “where was your son three years ago?”
Dante's expression changed.
“Why?”
“Please.”
He studied me for a long moment.
“Harbor House. He attended their afternoon program.”
My breath caught.
Before I could speak, a woman hurried toward us.
She wore an elegant burgundy gown and an emerald necklace.
“Dante, what's happening?”
She looked about forty-five, with the same dark eyes as him.
“My sister, Vivian,” Dante said.
Vivian Moretti smiled politely at me.
But the moment she saw the drawing, her smile disappeared.
“Matteo,” she said sharply, “where did you get that?”
The boy folded the paper against his chest.
“Mine.”
“Sweetheart, that's an old memory. We've discussed this.”
Dante frowned.
“Discussed what?”
Vivian ignored him.
She turned toward me.
“Miss, you've already caused enough disruption. Security will escort you out.”
I stood.
“Your nephew knew my brother.”
Her face hardened.
“I don't know what you're suggesting.”
“My brother died at Harbor House.”
For the first time, Vivian looked genuinely frightened.
Dante noticed.
“Vivian?”
She touched his arm.
“Not here.”
But Matteo suddenly climbed down from his chair.
He crossed the small space between us and pressed his drawing against my hand.
Then he pointed to the red door.
His voice was barely audible.
“Danny didn't run away.”
My knees weakened.
Matteo looked directly at his father.
“He came back for me.”
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And Vivian Moretti whispered something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“That child was never supposed to remember.”
