Chapter 2 - THE SIGN HIS MOTHER TAUGHT HIM
Rico’s chair scraped backward.
The sound cut through Il Destino like a knife.
“Do that again.”
Clara looked up from where she knelt beside Leo.
“What?”
“The hand.”
Rico’s voice was quiet now, which somehow frightened everyone in the restaurant more than shouting would have.
Clara glanced at Leo.
The boy had both hands wrapped around the warm glass. His breathing was still uneven, but he was no longer crying.
“I was calming him.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Rico stepped closer.
“Do it again.”
Clara slowly touched two fingers to her chest and opened her palm.
Leo immediately placed his tiny hand against his own chest.
Then he opened it toward her.
Rico’s face changed.
Not much.
But Clara saw it.
Recognition.
Pain.
Fear.
“Where did you learn that?”
Clara swallowed.
“My mother.”
Rico stared at her.
“What was her name?”
“Why?”
“Because my wife invented that gesture for our son.”
Clara’s eyes flicked toward Leo.
The little boy was sipping milk now.
One small sip at a time.
“That gesture existed long before your wife,” Clara said.
Dante moved closer behind Rico.
Clara noticed his bleeding hand wrapped in a linen napkin.
Rico didn’t blink.
“Your mother’s name.”
“Margaret Vance.”
Something passed across Dante’s expression.
It vanished almost immediately.
Rico saw it.
His head turned.
“You know that name?”
“No.”
Too quick.
Rico’s eyes hardened.
“You answered before I finished the question.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“I’ve heard thousands of names.”
Clara stood slowly.
She suddenly regretted coming to the table.
“I should get back to work.”
Leo grabbed her apron.
“No.”
The word was tiny.
But it froze everyone.
Rico looked at his son as though the child had performed a miracle.
Leo had spoken isolated words in the six months since Elena’s death, mostly during panic. But never like this.
Never to ask someone to stay.
Clara crouched again.
“I’m right here.”
Leo studied her face.
Then his small fingers touched her wrist.
Clara instinctively pulled back.
Too late.
The sleeve of her blouse slid upward.
Around her wrist was a thin silver bracelet.
Three small charms hung from it.
A moon.
A star.
And a tiny silver bird.
Rico stared.
The color drained from his face.
“Where did you get that?”
Clara covered the bracelet.
“My mother.”
Rico reached toward her, then stopped himself before touching her.
“Elena had one.”
Clara looked at him.
“A bracelet?”
“The same bracelet.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I buried her wearing it.”
Those words hit Clara strangely.
She looked down.
Her bracelet was scratched from years of wear. The clasp had been repaired with a tiny piece of mismatched silver.
“My mother gave me this when I was twelve.”
Rico’s breathing slowed.
He turned to Dante.
“Clear the restaurant.”
Marco paled.
“Mr. Moretti, we have a full—”
“Now.”
Within seconds, chairs began moving.
Diners were politely but firmly escorted toward the front.
No one complained.
People who knew Rico Moretti knew when curiosity became unhealthy.
Clara backed away.
“I’m not staying here while you interrogate me.”
Rico looked at Leo.
The child still had one fist wrapped around Clara’s apron.
“If I meant to hurt you, you wouldn’t be standing.”
“Not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Clara removed Leo’s fingers gently.
But the moment she stood, Leo’s face crumpled.
“No.”
“I’m only going to the counter.”
“No!”
Panic returned instantly.
Leo kicked his chair.
The glass slipped.
Clara caught it before it hit the floor.
She knelt again.
“Hey. Look at me.”
His breathing sped up.
Clara placed the glass aside.
“Blue truck.”
Leo blinked.
“Blue truck,” Clara repeated.
He sniffed.
“Where’s your blue truck?”
Leo pointed shakily toward a small toy near Rico’s chair.
“There.”
“Good. What color is Daddy’s tie?”
Leo looked.
“Black.”
“And my apron?”
“White.”
Clara nodded.
“You’re here. Nobody’s taking you anywhere.”
Leo’s breathing settled.
Rico watched every movement.
“How do you know to do that?”
Clara hesitated.
“My little brother used to panic.”
“Used to?”
“He died.”
Rico’s anger lost its edge for half a second.
“How old?”
“Seven.”
Clara stood before he could ask more.
“That’s enough.”
But Leo reached into the pocket of his little dinner jacket.
He removed something crumpled.
A photograph.
Rico frowned.
“I’ve never seen that.”
Leo handed it to Clara.
She unfolded it.
The photograph was old, creased down the middle and faded along the edges.
Two teenage girls stood near a summer boardwalk, laughing into the camera.
One had dark hair.
One had light brown hair.
Clara stopped breathing.
The brown-haired girl was unmistakable.
Her mother.
Margaret Vance.
Beside her stood a girl Clara had never seen.
Rico took one look and gripped the back of the chair.
“Elena.”
Clara looked at him.
“That’s your wife?”
“Yes.”
On the back of the photograph, written in blue ink, were four words.
Maggie + Ellie. Sisters always.
Clara read it twice.
“My mother never had a sister.”
Rico took the photograph.
“Neither did Elena.”
Dante suddenly stepped away.
Rico noticed.
“Where are you going?”
“To check the perimeter.”
“No.”
Dante stopped.
Rico held up the photograph.
“You recognized Margaret’s name.”
“I told you—”
“And you’re leaving now.”
Dante’s silence answered more than words could.
Clara looked between them.
“What is happening?”
Rico stared at his oldest friend.
“Tell her.”
Dante’s face looked older suddenly.
“I can’t.”
Rico crossed the space between them.
“You can.”
Dante lowered his voice.
“Elena made me promise.”
The room went still.
Rico’s expression became almost blank.
“My wife told you about Clara’s mother?”
Dante looked toward Leo.
Then Clara.
“She didn’t tell me everything.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That if a woman named Margaret Vance ever came near Leo…”
Dante paused.
Clara’s heartbeat hammered.
“What?”
Dante finally met Rico’s eyes.
“She said I was supposed to let her take him.”
Rico’s hand closed around Dante’s collar.
“You’re telling me my wife gave another woman permission to take my son?”
Dante did not fight him.
“She said if something happened to her, Margaret would know why.”
Clara shook her head.
“My mother died eleven years ago.”
Dante’s eyes moved to her bracelet.
Then to the photograph.
“That’s what Elena thought too.”
Clara froze.
“What?”
Dante reached slowly into his jacket.
Rico’s hand moved toward his gun.
Dante stopped.
“It’s not a weapon.”
He withdrew a small cream-colored envelope.
The paper was worn soft at the edges.
Across the front, in handwriting Rico recognized instantly, was one name.
Clara.
Rico’s grip loosened.
Clara stared at it.
“You’ve had that?”
“For six months.”
Her face flushed.
“And you never found me?”
“Elena ordered me not to.”
Rico snatched the envelope.
“You obeyed her over me?”
“She was terrified.”
“Of whom?”
Dante looked at him.
“Of someone inside your family.”
That landed harder than any gunshot.
Rico tore open the envelope.
Inside was a small brass key and a single folded note.
He read it.
His eyes stopped moving.
Clara stepped forward.
“What does it say?”
Rico looked at her.
For the first time all evening, the feared capo of the Moretti family looked genuinely afraid.
He handed her the note.
Clara unfolded it.
Elena had written only one sentence.
Clara, if Leo recognizes you before Rico understands why, do not trust the man who wears my father’s watch.
Clara looked up.
Across the room, near the darkened bar, Dante stared at Rico’s left wrist.
Rico followed his gaze.
A heavy antique gold watch sat beneath the cuff of his shirt.
May you like
The watch his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday.
The watch Rico had worn every day for fourteen years.
