Chapter 2 - The Little Hand That Chose Her
Clara expected Rico Moretti to tell her to leave.
Instead, he stared at his son.
Leo was still holding two of Clara's fingers.
The child had gone completely quiet.
Not the hollow silence Rico had become accustomed to over the previous six months. This silence was different. Leo's body had softened against him. His breathing was steady. He occasionally lifted the glass of warm milk and took another careful sip.
Rico looked from Leo to Clara.
“What did you do?”
“I already told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“I didn't do anything to him.”
“My son hasn't let a stranger touch him since his mother died.”
Clara glanced down at Leo's hand.
“He touched me.”
That answer seemed to unsettle Rico more.
Marco finally found enough courage to approach.
“Mr. Moretti, I apologize. Ms. Vance had no permission to interrupt your dinner. I assure you—”
“Stop.”
Marco stopped.
Rico never looked away from Clara.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three months.”
“I've never seen you.”
“I usually work the east section.”
“Why tonight?”
“Someone called out.”
Rico's gaze was too focused.
Clara didn't like it.
“You interrogate all your waitresses after they serve milk?”
“I interrogate people who surprise me.”
“I wasn't trying to surprise you.”
“You did.”
Leo suddenly tugged Clara's hand.
She lowered her eyes.
“What is it?”
Leo whispered something.
Clara bent slightly closer.
“What?”
“Sit.”
Rico's face changed again.
Clara looked toward an empty chair.
Then toward Rico.
“Is that okay?”
For a man accustomed to controlling rooms, Rico seemed strangely uncertain.
Finally, he nodded.
Clara sat.
Leo shifted away from his father just enough to keep hold of her.
Rico watched every movement.
“What happened to his mom?” Clara asked quietly.
Dante's attention snapped toward her.
Rico answered after several seconds.
“She died.”
“I know that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because there's what newspapers say, and there's what a child understands.”
Rico leaned back.
“What exactly are you?”
“A waitress.”
“No.”
Clara almost smiled.
“That's disappointing. I was hoping the apron made it obvious.”
Rico didn't smile.
But something in his eyes changed.
“Have you worked with children?”
“My brother had panic attacks when he was little.”
“That's all?”
“I helped at an after-school program for two years.”
“Psychology?”
“I studied nursing for a while.”
“Why'd you stop?”
Clara's expression tightened.
“Life.”
Rico understood evasions.
He used them professionally.
Before he could ask more, Leo spoke.
“Mama milk.”
Rico froze.
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
Rico swallowed.
“Elena used to warm milk when he couldn't sleep.”
Clara glanced at the glass.
“With sugar?”
“One cube.”
Now it was Clara's turn to become still.
“That's what I put in it.”
Rico stared.
“How did you know?”
“My grandmother did it for us.”
Neither spoke.
A coincidence.
That was all.
But grief had a way of making coincidences feel like messages.
Leo lifted his head.
“Mama.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Leo?”
The boy's expression changed.
Fear moved across his face.
“Red.”
Rico's entire body went rigid.
“What did you say?”
Leo immediately buried himself against Clara's arm.
She looked at Rico.
“Don't push him.”
“What did he say?”
“Rico.”
It was the first time Clara used his name.
Dante noticed.
Rico barely seemed to.
“Leo.” His voice softened with enormous effort. “What was red?”
Leo squeezed his eyes shut.
“No.”
“Was it a car?”
“No!”
His breathing accelerated.
Clara turned toward Rico.
“Stop.”
“He remembers something.”
“And you're scaring it back inside him.”
Rico stood so suddenly his chair scraped the floor.
Several diners flinched.
Clara remained seated.
Rico paced two steps.
Then stopped.
His fists slowly opened.
He looked at his son and seemed ashamed.
“I'm sorry.”
Leo wouldn't look at him.
Rico lowered himself back into his chair.
“I'm sorry, buddy.”
The words sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.
Clara heard it.
So did Dante.
Rico Moretti was not known for apologies.
He looked at Clara.
“Get him settled.”
“I'm not his nanny.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“Sounded close.”
“You have somewhere more important to be?”
Clara pointed toward the restaurant.
“Roughly twelve tables.”
Rico looked at Marco.
“Not anymore.”
Clara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you're finished for the night.”
“I need the shift.”
“You'll be paid.”
“I don't want your money for not working.”
Something almost resembling disbelief crossed his face.
People rarely rejected Rico's money.
“I wasn't asking.”
“And I wasn't accepting.”
Leo looked between them.
Rico saw it.
He lowered his voice.
“Fine. You're still working. Your current table is this one.”
Clara stared at him.
“That's ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because you're trying to turn a human interaction into an employment arrangement.”
Rico leaned closer.
“I turn everything into an arrangement.”
“I noticed.”
A tiny sound came from Leo.
For one startled second, Clara thought he had started crying again.
Then she realized.
He had laughed.
Barely.
One breath of amusement.
But it was a laugh.
Rico heard it.
His face went blank.
Then utterly unguarded.
“Do that again,” he whispered.
Leo hid his face.
Clara smiled.
“You scared him.”
“I wasn't talking to you.”
“You're not very good with toddlers.”
Rico stared at her.
“I run several companies.”
“Can any of them put on their own shoes backward and then scream because you fixed them?”
Dante coughed into his fist.
Rico looked at him.
“Something funny?”
“No, boss.”
“Good.”
But when Rico turned back, the edge of his mouth had changed.
The dinner ended forty minutes later.
Leo ate half a piece of bread, drank his milk, and remained attached to Clara's hand.
When Clara finally explained that she had to finish work, he looked devastated.
“I'll be here tomorrow,” she promised.
Rico looked up.
“You're working tomorrow?”
“Dinner shift.”
“What time?”
“Why?”
“What time?”
“Five.”
Leo repeated, “Five.”
Clara pointed gently toward Rico.
“You go home with Daddy.”
Leo frowned.
“Clara.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
The word was imperfect but unmistakable.
Rico looked down sharply.
Clara squeezed Leo's hand.
“Promise.”
Only then did he let go.
Rico rose.
Clara stood as well.
For the first time all night, Leo willingly took his father's hand.
Rico noticed that too.
Before leaving, he turned back.
“Ms. Vance.”
“Yes?”
“I owe you.”
“No.”
His brows lowered.
“No?”
“You don't owe somebody every time they're kind to your kid.”
For a few seconds, Rico said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
Clara watched them leave surrounded by security.
Sarah rushed over immediately.
“You are clinically insane.”
“Probably.”
“He talked to you.”
“Leo?”
“Moretti!”
“He talks to everyone.”
“Not like that.”
Marco stormed toward them.
“Clara. Office. Now.”
Sarah grimaced.
“Funeral time.”
Inside Marco's office, Clara received twelve minutes of furious whispering.
She had violated protocol.
She had crossed security.
She had contradicted the restaurant owner.
She had behaved recklessly.
“You cannot treat Ricardo Moretti like some exhausted father at a diner!”
“He was an exhausted father.”
“He is not just anything!”
Eventually Marco ran out of breath.
“Am I fired?”
He stared at her.
“No.”
“Then can I go finish closing?”
“No.”
“What now?”
Marco looked deeply offended.
“He called.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Moretti.”
Clara blinked.
“He left five minutes ago.”
“He called from the car.”
“And?”
“He said if I fire you, he'll fire me.”
Clara stared.
Marco pointed toward the door.
“Go away.”
When Clara finally left Il Destino just after midnight, the city had turned cold.
She wrapped her thin coat around herself and started toward the subway.
She never noticed the dark sedan half a block behind her.
It moved when she moved.
Stopped when she stopped.
At the Moretti townhouse in Brooklyn Heights, Rico carried his sleeping son upstairs.
The mansion was silent.
Too silent.
Elena's absence lived everywhere.
In the untouched piano.
In the perfume Rico had never allowed the housekeeper to remove from the master bathroom.
In the family photographs he couldn't look at but refused to take down.
He lowered Leo into bed.
The child's eyes opened.
“Clara?”
“Tomorrow.”
Leo studied his father.
Then whispered, “Red car.”
Rico's blood went cold.
He sat down beside the bed.
“What red car?”
Leo's lower lip trembled.
“Mama scared.”
Rico forced himself not to move.
“What else, Leo?”
The boy stared past him.
“Uncle.”
Rico's heart stopped.
“What uncle?”
But Leo rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.
Within moments, exhaustion pulled him back to sleep.
Rico remained beside the bed.
Uncle.
Leo had three men in his life whom he called uncle.
Dante.
Rico's younger brother Gabriel.
And Vincent Moretti, Rico's cousin and oldest friend.
Rico stood slowly.
He walked into the hallway.
Dante was waiting downstairs.
Rico descended.
“Find out everything you can about Clara Vance.”
Dante frowned.
“The waitress?”
“Everything.”
“Because you don't trust her?”
Rico looked toward the upper floor.
“I don't know.”
He paused.
“And pull every security file from the week Elena died.”
Dante's expression changed.
“Why?”
Rico's voice became very quiet.
“Because Leo remembers a red car.”
Dante said nothing.
“And he remembers an uncle.”
Across the city, Clara reached her apartment building.
She climbed the stairs.
Unlocked her door.
Stepped inside.
She was about to close it when something white caught her eye.
An envelope lay on the floor.
No stamp.
No name.
Only three typed words.
STAY AWAY FROM THEM.
Clara stared at the message.
Behind her, somewhere down on the street, an engine started.
By the time she reached the window, the dark sedan was already disappearing around the corner.
May you like
And for the first time since she had approached Leo Moretti's table, Clara understood that the little boy's grief might be hiding something far more dangerous than sorrow.
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