Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
“Tell him the truth, Tessa.”
The bodyguard's voice was calm, but my manager looked as though someone had just read his death sentence.
I stood beside Salvatore Marquetti's dining table, my hands trembling against my black uniform.
For four years, I had swallowed insults because I needed my paycheck.
Now Chicago's most feared mafia boss was waiting for me to explain why my coworkers had sent me into his private dining room as a joke.
“They thought it would be funny,” I finally said.
Brett stepped forward.
“Mr. Marquetti, she's exaggerating. We were simply assigning tables.”
Salvatore looked at him.
Then he turned toward me and signed.
“Did you know they expected you to fail?”
I nodded.
“They were laughing before I came inside. They said you wouldn't acknowledge me, and they wanted to watch what happened.”
The bodyguard standing closest to Salvatore translated.
Brett's expression hardened.
“Tessa, remember who employs you.”
Salvatore's hands moved immediately.
The bodyguard translated without hesitation.
“She remembers. The question is whether you remember how to treat someone who works for you.”
Nobody spoke.
The silence felt heavier than shouting.
Salvatore pulled out the chair across from him and gestured for me to sit.
I hesitated.
Waitresses didn't sit with men like Salvatore Marquetti.
Especially not when their managers were watching.
But he signed something that made my throat tighten.
“You have been standing for other people all evening. Sit for yourself.”
I lowered myself into the chair.
Brett stared at me with open disbelief.
Salvatore turned toward the oldest bodyguard, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair.
His name was Marco Russo.
Unlike the others, Marco understood ASL.
Salvatore signed rapidly.
Marco nodded, then faced Brett.
“Mr. Marquetti wants the service instructions for this room.”
Brett blinked.
“The instructions?”
“The ones your staff received before he arrived.”
Brett reluctantly handed over a black leather service folder.
Marco opened it.
Inside were the usual documents.
Dinner selections.
Wine preferences.
Seating arrangements.
Then he stopped.
Something had been slipped beneath the final page.
A cream-colored card bearing the embossed Marquetti family crest.
Across the top, in capital letters, someone had written:
NO DIRECT SIGN LANGUAGE COMMUNICATION WITH THE GUEST.
Marco's expression changed.
Salvatore held out his hand.
He read the card once.
Then again.
Finally, he signed to Marco.
“I never authorized this.”
Brett swallowed.
“That came from your office, sir.”
Salvatore's eyes narrowed.
“Which office?”
“The foundation. Someone delivered it this afternoon.”
I knew almost nothing about Salvatore's business dealings.
But even I recognized the name of the Marquetti Foundation.
It funded hospitals, community programs, and several charitable organizations across Chicago.
Including the neighborhood center where I attended my Wednesday ASL classes.
Marco continued examining the folder.
Then he found something else.
A photograph.
It had been folded in half and tucked behind the card.
Marco opened it.
My heart nearly stopped.
The picture showed two people standing outside a brick building beneath a blue awning.
A young woman holding a grocery bag.
And a young man wearing a gray jacket, smiling as he signed something to her.
The woman was me.
The young man was my nineteen-year-old brother, Owen.
The photograph had been taken outside our community center.
Only three days earlier.
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped against the floor.
“Where did you get that?”
Marco looked at me.
“You recognize these people?”
“That's my brother.”
Salvatore immediately straightened.
His hands moved.
“Your brother who has hearing loss?”
I nodded.
My mouth had gone dry.
Someone had followed us.
Someone knew where Owen spent his afternoons.
And someone had somehow placed his photograph inside the private dining instructions of one of Chicago's most powerful men.
Brett looked genuinely confused.
“I didn't put that there.”
For the first time that evening, I believed him.
He was frightened.
Not embarrassed.
Frightened.
Salvatore studied the photograph carefully.
Then he noticed something written on the back.
He turned it over.
Marco read the words aloud.
“Ward family. Older sister employed at restaurant. Younger brother attends community center.”
Beneath those sentences, another message had been written in red ink.
Marco stopped reading.
Salvatore's expression darkened.
I reached for the photograph.
“What does it say?”
Marco looked at Salvatore, who gave a small nod.
Then the bodyguard turned toward me.
“Tessa, someone has written two words beside your brother's name.”
He placed the photograph on the table.
I looked down.
May you like
Beside Owen's face, written in thick red letters, were the words:
OWEN WARD — NEXT.
