Chapter 3 - The Woman His Son Remembered
Clara did not sleep.
At 2:14 in the morning, she was still sitting on the edge of her secondhand sofa staring at the envelope.
STAY AWAY FROM THEM.
She had checked the hallway twice.
Locked the deadbolt.
Pushed a chair beneath the doorknob even though she knew that trick worked better in movies than in real apartments.
Then she made tea and didn't drink it.
At three, she considered calling the police.
At three-ten, she remembered whose family the warning concerned.
At three-twelve, she put her phone down.
The Moretti name didn't encourage ordinary solutions.
By sunrise, Clara had convinced herself the message could have been a cruel joke.
By nine, she no longer believed that.
The paper was too clean.
The printing too deliberate.
Someone had followed her.
Someone knew where she lived.
And apparently someone knew what happened at Il Destino before Clara herself had fully understood it.
At eleven, someone knocked on her door.
Clara froze.
Another knock.
“Ms. Vance?”
Male voice.
She moved quietly toward the peephole.
A broad man in a dark coat stood outside.
She recognized him.
Dante.
Clara opened the door but kept the chain on.
“What do you want?”
“Mr. Moretti asked me to bring you something.”
“I don't want anything.”
Dante glanced at the chain.
“Smart.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
He held up a paper bag.
“Your tip from last night.”
“I got my tips.”
“This is different.”
“Then take it back.”
“He said you'd say that.”
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“What else did he say?”
“That I should leave it anyway.”
“Tell him no.”
Dante almost smiled.
“You enjoy doing that, don't you?”
“What?”
“Saying no to him.”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“No.”
That answer was so immediate Clara believed him.
Dante started to turn.
Then she remembered the envelope.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
Clara hesitated.
Everything inside her said to keep quiet.
Instead she removed the chain.
“Come in.”
Dante entered but stayed near the door.
She picked up the envelope using a napkin and handed it over.
His expression changed the moment he read it.
“When did you get this?”
“Last night.”
“You touch anything?”
“The envelope.”
“Anyone see you come home?”
“I don't know.”
His eyes went toward the window.
“You're not going to work tonight.”
Clara crossed her arms.
“Excuse me?”
“You're coming with me.”
“No.”
“Ms. Vance.”
“You people have a real problem with commands.”
“Someone followed you home.”
“Which is why I'm not getting into a car with another member of the same universe.”
Dante breathed out slowly.
“Fair.”
He made a phone call.
“Boss.”
Pause.
“She received a warning.”
Longer pause.
“Yes.”
Dante held the phone away from his ear.
Clara could hear Rico's voice even from several feet away.
“What?”
She held out her hand.
“Give me that.”
Dante looked amused and passed over the phone.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Stay there.”
“No.”
Silence.
Clara continued.
“I have a shift at five.”
“You're not going.”
“I need my job.”
“You're not going.”
“Rico—”
“Someone threatened you because of my family.”
“Yes.”
“That makes it my responsibility.”
“No, it makes it somebody else's crime.”
“What if they come back?”
“What if they do?”
“You're arguing because you don't understand the situation.”
“And you're ordering me because that's the only way you know how to communicate.”
Dante stared at the wall, clearly enjoying himself.
Rico went silent.
Then:
“Leo wants to see you.”
Clara stopped.
It was unfair.
He knew it.
She knew it.
“You're using your son.”
“I am informing you of a fact.”
“That's worse.”
“He woke up asking whether five o'clock had happened yet.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Rico continued more softly.
“I don't know what you did last night.”
“I breathed.”
“He hasn't slept through the night in six months.”
That landed.
“He did last night?”
“Six hours.”
For the first time, Rico's voice carried something Clara hadn't heard before.
Hope.
Dangerous, fragile hope.
“Come to the house,” he said. “Not because I'm ordering you. Because Leo asked.”
Clara looked at the warning in Dante's hand.
“Two hours.”
“What?”
“I'll come for two hours.”
“Fine.”
“And I'm going to work afterward.”
“We'll discuss it.”
“No, we won't.”
Dante covered a laugh by coughing.
Clara hung up.
Thirty minutes later, she sat in the back of a black SUV moving through Brooklyn.
She hated herself for noticing how comfortable the seats were.
The Moretti residence stood on a quiet tree-lined street in Brooklyn Heights.
It wasn't the gaudy mansion Clara expected.
It was worse.
Subtle wealth.
Old brick.
Black iron gates.
Tall windows.
The kind of place so expensive it didn't need to prove anything.
A housekeeper opened the door.
“Ms. Vance.”
Before Clara could answer, footsteps thundered above.
“Clara!”
Leo appeared at the top of the staircase in blue pajamas.
A nanny reached for him.
He dodged her.
“Leo, slow down!”
Clara's heart jumped as he tried to descend too fast.
Rico appeared behind him.
“Hey.”
He scooped Leo up.
The boy protested until he saw Clara.
Then everything changed.
His face lit.
“Five!”
Clara laughed.
“It's actually one.”
“Five.”
“You've been waiting, huh?”
Leo reached toward her.
Rico hesitated only a moment before letting Clara take him.
Leo wrapped both arms around her neck.
Clara's chest tightened.
Children had a way of trusting completely before adults had decided whether trust was reasonable.
“Milk?”
he asked.
“You're going to turn that into a habit.”
“Milk.”
“Okay.”
Rico watched them.
He had changed from last night.
No suit jacket.
Black shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Still intimidating.
Less like a headline.
More like a tired man in his own home.
Clara followed Leo toward the kitchen.
On the way, she passed a framed photograph.
Elena.
She stopped.
The woman in the picture was beautiful.
Dark blond hair.
Warm brown eyes.
Leo in her lap.
Rico standing behind them with a hand on Elena's shoulder.
They looked normal.
Happy.
That hurt more than Clara expected.
“She hated that photograph.”
Rico's voice came from behind her.
“Why?”
“Said her hair looked terrible.”
“It doesn't.”
“I told her that.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Never.”
Clara looked at him.
For a second, there was no mafia boss.
Only a widower.
Then Rico's expression changed.
He took an envelope from the nearby table.
Dante had already delivered it.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Does anybody know you approached us last night?”
“The entire restaurant.”
“Outside the restaurant.”
“No.”
“Anyone from your past who might have a reason to scare you?”
Clara stiffened.
“My past isn't relevant.”
“It became relevant when someone left this at your door.”
“No. Your past became relevant.”
Rico studied her.
She held his gaze.
Eventually he nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Clara glanced toward Leo.
“What did he say last night?”
Rico went still.
“You know he said something.”
“You wouldn't have dragged six-month-old security files out unless he did.”
“How do you know I did that?”
“Dante has the world's worst poker face.”
From the hallway, Dante said, “I heard that.”
Clara raised her voice.
“I intended you to.”
Rico almost smiled.
Then the humor disappeared.
“Leo said 'red car.'”
Clara waited.
“And?”
“He said his mother was scared.”
Her stomach tightened.
“And then he said 'uncle.'”
“Do you know what that means?”
“No.”
“Who does he call uncle?”
Rico didn't answer immediately.
“That isn't information I want spreading.”
“I didn't ask for gossip.”
“I know.”
He lowered his voice.
“Three men.”
Before he could explain further, Leo entered carrying a small wooden toy car.
Red.
Rico's eyes moved to it.
Leo approached Clara.
“Look.”
She crouched.
“That's a nice car.”
Leo's face shifted.
His fingers tightened.
“Mama car.”
Rico knelt beside them.
“Leo, was Mommy in a red car?”
The boy shook his head.
Clara touched Rico's wrist.
Slow down.
He understood.
She pointed toward the toy.
“Whose car?”
Leo stared.
“Uncle Vin.”
Rico stopped breathing.
Dante appeared in the doorway.
Nobody spoke.
Leo rolled the toy across the floor.
“Uncle Vin car.”
Rico looked at Dante.
Vincent Moretti.
Rico's cousin.
His childhood best friend.
The man who had stood beside Rico at Elena's funeral.
The man who held Leo while Rico buried his wife.
Clara watched Rico's face become unreadable.
“Coincidence,” Dante said.
Rico didn't answer.
Leo suddenly abandoned the car and ran toward a shelf.
He pulled down a book.
A children's story Elena used to read to him.
Something slipped from between the pages.
A photograph.
Clara picked it up.
Rico frowned.
“I've never seen that.”
The picture showed Elena standing outside what appeared to be a community center.
Beside her stood several volunteers.
One was Clara.
Younger.
Hair shorter.
Smiling.
Clara stared.
Rico looked from the photograph to her.
His expression turned cold.
“You said you never knew my wife.”
Clara's mouth went dry.
“I didn't.”
“Then explain that.”
Clara looked closer.
Memory came slowly.
A charity evening.
Years ago.
Hundreds of people.
A woman who had helped serve meals.
A woman Clara hadn't known by name.
“Oh my God.”
Rico stepped closer.
“Who are you?”
“I told you.”
“You're in a photograph with Elena.”
“I didn't know it was her.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it's the truth!”
Leo flinched.
Clara immediately lowered her voice.
“I volunteered there when I was nineteen. Families in crisis. Food assistance, child care, nursing referrals. Hundreds of volunteers came through.”
Rico took the photograph.
On the back was handwriting.
Elena's handwriting.
He recognized it immediately.
There was a date.
Five years earlier.
And six words.
If anything happens, find Clara Vance.
Rico read it twice.
Then once more.
Clara's face drained of color.
“I don't understand.”
Neither did Rico.
But somebody apparently had.
Because at that exact moment, Dante's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression hardened.
“When?”
Rico turned.
“What?”
Dante ended the call.
“The man who followed Clara last night?”
“Yes?”
“We found the car.”
“And?”
“Abandoned.”
Rico waited.
Dante looked at Clara.
“There was another photograph inside.”
He showed them an image sent to his phone.
It was Clara entering the Moretti house less than thirty minutes earlier.
Across the bottom, someone had written:
ELENA MADE THE SAME MISTAKE.
Rico's eyes turned to ice.
And suddenly the photograph in his hand no longer looked like an accident.
May you like
It looked like a message Elena had hidden five years ago, waiting for the one person she believed might someday protect her son.
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