Chapter 2 - THE DINNER THAT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE EATEN
"His supper was supposed to be taken upstairs before the guests arrived."
The words escaped my mouth before I could reconsider them.
Across the banquet table, the syndicate patriarch slowly lowered his wineglass.
His name was Vincent Moretti.
At forty-six, he controlled half the shipping operations along the Philadelphia waterfront, several luxury hotels, and enough powerful connections to make even wealthy men careful around him.
But tonight, he wasn't looking at his business associates.
He was looking at me.
"Who gave that instruction?"
I glanced toward his future bride.
Vanessa Laurent sat perfectly still in her ivory evening gown, a diamond necklace resting against her throat.
"Miss Laurent's assistant," I answered. "She told the kitchen that your son wouldn't be dining with the family."
Vanessa laughed softly.
"A misunderstanding, Vincent. Children get tired during long dinners."
Nine-year-old Daniel Moretti didn't look tired.
He looked frightened.
Vincent turned toward him.
"Daniel, did you ask to eat upstairs?"
The boy shook his head.
"Use your words, son."
"No, Daddy."
Something moved across Vincent's face.
Not anger.
Recognition.
As though he had suddenly discovered how little he knew about his own household.
Vanessa leaned forward.
"Darling, we discussed this. Daniel becomes overwhelmed at formal gatherings."
"I asked him a question."
Her smile stiffened.
Vincent looked back at me.
"Your name?"
"Rachel Bennett, sir."
"How long have you worked here?"
"Tonight is my first evening. I'm with the catering company."
"Then explain why you thought my son needed another dinner."
I swallowed.
"Because his food was cold, sir. And because when I offered to replace it, he asked whether he was allowed to eat."
Silence.
Vincent's fingers tightened around his glass.
"Allowed?"
Daniel stared at his napkin.
Vanessa immediately answered.
"Rachel has misunderstood. Daniel has become terribly difficult since his mother's death."
The boy's face changed.
His mother.
Even I knew that name.
Elizabeth Moretti had died two years earlier, leaving Vincent with a child he loved but barely understood.
The official explanation was complications following an illness.
Vanessa had entered their lives eight months later.
And now she was preparing to become Daniel's stepmother.
Vincent addressed his son again.
"Daniel, look at me."
The boy hesitated.
"Have you been told not to eat with us?"
Daniel nodded.
"Who told you?"
His eyes moved toward Vanessa.
She reached across the table.
"Sweetheart, remember what we discussed about making up stories."
Daniel immediately pulled his hands into his lap.
That small movement told me more than her words.
Vincent noticed it too.
"Vanessa," he said quietly, "take your hand away from my son."
She withdrew it.
Then Daniel whispered something.
"Daddy, I wasn't supposed to eat that chicken."
Vincent looked down.
The original plate still sat beside the fresh meal I'd brought.
Cold chicken.
Mashed potatoes.
Green vegetables.
Vanessa's expression sharpened.
"Daniel, that's enough."
But Vincent wasn't listening to her.
"Why weren't you supposed to eat it?"
The boy looked at me.
Then at his father.
"Because Miss Vanessa said it would help me sleep."
A strange feeling settled in my stomach.
The old plate had been sitting untouched for nearly forty minutes.
I remembered something from the kitchen.
Vanessa's personal assistant had carried it away from the serving station after the chef finished preparing it.
Five minutes later, she'd returned it.
At the time, I hadn't thought anything of it.
Now I did.
"Mr. Moretti," I said carefully, "someone took that plate out of the kitchen before it was served."
Vincent's security chief, Marco DeLuca, stepped closer.
"Who?"
"Miss Laurent's assistant."
Vanessa stood so suddenly that her chair scraped across the marble.
"This is ridiculous! You're allowing a temporary waitress to accuse me of hurting your child?"
Vincent didn't raise his voice.
"Sit down."
"Vincent—"
"Sit."
She obeyed.
He motioned toward Marco.
"Take that plate. Have the food examined."
Daniel's expression suddenly changed.
"Daddy, don't."
Vincent turned toward him.
"Why?"
The boy's lower lip trembled.
"Because Miss Vanessa said if I told you about the medicine, she'd take away Mommy's blue box."
Vanessa went completely pale.
Vincent leaned closer to his son.
"What blue box?"
Daniel reached into his jacket pocket.
He removed a small silver key attached to a faded blue ribbon.
"Mommy told me to keep this safe."
Vincent stared at it.
Then he whispered something so softly I almost missed it.
"Elizabeth's jewelry box."
Vanessa closed her eyes.
May you like
And Daniel delivered the sentence that silenced everyone at the table.
"Miss Vanessa said Mommy left something inside that proves I don't belong here."
