Chapter 2 - The Name That Drained the Color From His Face
The Sapphire Lounge remained frozen for almost ten seconds after Alessandro Viti ended the call.
Nobody seemed willing to be the first person to move.
Vincenzo Moretti finally lowered the phone.
His expression had changed.
Clara had seen powerful men lose their tempers before.
She had grown up watching them pound tables, break glasses, and make threats they assumed would frighten everyone in the room.
Fear looked different.
Fear was quiet.
And Vincenzo Moretti was very quiet.
“You're Alessandro Viti's daughter.”
It wasn't a question.
Clara held out her hand.
“My phone.”
He returned it.
“You said your name was Evans.”
“It is.”
“Viti has no daughter named Evans.”
“He does now.”
Stanley looked between them.
“You're—”
Clara turned sharply.
“Don't.”
Stanley stopped.
Moretti studied her as if she had become an entirely different person.
It irritated her.
Twenty minutes earlier she had been a poor waitress he could humiliate.
Now she was apparently worth caution because of the man who had answered her phone.
Nothing about Clara had changed.
Only his information had.
“Everybody out,” Moretti said.
Nobody moved immediately.
He raised his voice.
“Now.”
Customers stood.
Staff hurried toward the side hallway.
Clara stayed where she was.
Moretti looked at his guards.
“Find Marco.”
One guard touched his earpiece.
“He left through the kitchen exit.”
“When?”
“About two minutes ago.”
Moretti's expression darkened.
“Bring him back.”
Clara folded her arms.
“Interesting.”
Moretti looked at her.
“What?”
“You accused me without evidence. The second my father gives you something else to worry about, one of your friends disappears.”
“Marco didn't steal from me.”
“You sound confident.”
He recognized his own words.
For the first time, shame touched his face.
It disappeared quickly.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“You don't get to give me orders.”
Moretti exhaled slowly.
“You should probably not leave until your father arrives.”
“That sounds a lot like another order.”
“It isn't.”
“Then I'll decide.”
She picked up her purse.
Moretti stepped aside instead of stopping her.
That surprised her.
At the club entrance, Stanley caught up.
“Clara.”
She turned.
His face was pale.
“I didn't know.”
“That shouldn't matter.”
He looked down.
“I should have stopped it.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
That answer hurt him more than anger would have.
Clara walked outside.
Rain hit her immediately.
The sidewalk shone beneath streetlights.
She stood beneath the narrow awning and called a rideshare.
Seven minutes away.
A black sedan was already parked across the street.
Clara noticed it because she had been trained to notice vehicles that stayed too long.
Old habits.
The headlights turned on.
Her stomach tightened.
The car pulled away.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe not.
She canceled the ride.
Behind her, the Sapphire Lounge door opened.
Moretti stepped outside.
“What?”
Clara pointed toward the departing sedan.
“Do you know that car?”
“No.”
“Were your people watching the street?”
“Yes.”
“Ask them.”
Moretti glanced at his guard.
The guard spoke quietly into his radio.
Thirty seconds later he frowned.
“No plate.”
Clara stared at him.
“No plate?”
“Covered.”
Moretti's eyes hardened.
“Someone was watching.”
“Congratulations,” Clara said. “Now you're starting to ask useful questions.”
A second SUV approached.
This one Clara recognized before it stopped.
Black Cadillac.
Westchester plates.
Driver named Daniel Ortiz.
Front passenger named Samuel Price.
Her father's security director.
Clara closed her eyes.
“Of course.”
Samuel stepped out.
Fifty-three, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples.
When he saw Clara's cheek, his expression became dangerous.
“Miss Viti.”
“Don't.”
“Your father is forty minutes out.”
“You made it here in twelve.”
“We were already in Manhattan.”
Clara stared at him.
“Why?”
Samuel hesitated.
Clara's eyes narrowed.
“Samuel.”
“We've been monitoring something.”
“What?”
“Your father will explain.”
She laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
“Clara—”
“He still watches me.”
“Not you.”
“Then what?”
Samuel looked toward Moretti.
“The Moretti organization.”
Vincenzo stepped closer.
“Why?”
Samuel ignored him.
Moretti's guards immediately stiffened.
Clara raised a hand.
“Nobody is doing this.”
Samuel looked at her.
“Doing what?”
“The posturing. The staring. The hands near jackets. Whatever ridiculous ritual comes next.”
Moretti almost smiled.
Almost.
Samuel did not.
“Your father gave very specific instructions.”
“I don't care.”
Samuel's jaw tightened.
“You were assaulted.”
“And I'm still the person who decides what happens next.”
That silenced him.
Clara pointed toward the Sapphire Lounge.
“Someone stole a watch. Someone deliberately made Moretti think I did it. Then Marco DeLuca disappeared the moment he heard my father's name.”
Samuel's expression changed.
“Marco DeLuca?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
Moretti moved closer.
“Tell me.”
Samuel glanced at Clara.
She nodded.
“He's been communicating with people outside your organization.”
Moretti stared at him.
“How do you know?”
Samuel's answer came carefully.
“Because some of those people have been communicating with ours.”
The rain intensified.
Clara suddenly felt cold.
“What does this have to do with Dad?”
Samuel looked uncomfortable.
“That's his story to tell.”
“No. It's my life they're dragging into this.”
A black Mercedes turned the corner.
Samuel straightened.
Clara didn't need to see the passenger.
She knew.
The car stopped.
The rear door opened.
Alessandro Viti stepped into the rain.
He was sixty-one now.
His hair had gone silver at the temples since Clara last saw him.
He wore a dark navy coat with no umbrella.
He looked neither hurried nor angry.
That was when Alessandro was most dangerous.
He walked directly toward Clara.
Not Moretti.
Not the guards.
Her.
His eyes reached her cheek.
Something broke briefly in his expression.
“My girl.”
Clara swallowed.
“Dad.”
He lifted one hand but stopped before touching her.
For all his faults, Alessandro had learned one boundary.
Sometimes love required asking permission.
“May I?”
Clara nodded.
He gently touched her cheek.
His hand trembled once.
Then he lowered it.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
He turned toward Vincenzo.
Samuel shifted.
Clara stepped between them.
“No.”
Her father looked at her.
“You haven't heard what I was going to say.”
“I know exactly what you were going to say.”
“Clara.”
“No threats. No revenge. No men disappearing.”
Vincenzo watched the exchange.
Alessandro's face remained controlled.
“He struck my daughter.”
“And I decide what happens to me.”
A long silence.
Finally Alessandro nodded.
“Then you decide.”
Vincenzo seemed surprised.
Clara was too.
Her father turned toward him.
“Where is the watch?”
“Missing.”
“What kind?”
“Platinum Patek Philippe. Custom engraving.”
“Insured?”
“Yes.”
“Sentimental?”
Moretti hesitated.
“It belonged to my father.”
Alessandro's expression changed.
Carlo Moretti.
Clara noticed.
“You knew his father,” she said.
Alessandro looked at her.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well enough.”
Moretti's eyes narrowed.
“My father hated you.”
Alessandro looked almost tired.
“Your father told you many things.”
“Are you saying he lied?”
“I am saying dead men leave stories behind, and stories rarely contain every page.”
Clara stepped closer.
“What page am I missing?”
Neither man answered.
That irritated her more than anything.
“I'm done with secrets.”
Alessandro looked toward the club.
“Then we start with the watch.”
Moretti said, “Marco disappeared.”
Alessandro's expression sharpened.
“Marco DeLuca?”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“Why?”
Before Alessandro could answer, Samuel's phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His face changed.
“Sir.”
Alessandro turned.
Samuel showed him something.
Clara walked over.
A photograph.
Taken less than five minutes earlier.
Marco DeLuca standing beside a black sedan beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
Beside him was another man.
Clara had never seen him.
Moretti had.
His face hardened instantly.
“That man is supposed to be dead.”
Clara stared at him.
“Who is he?”
Vincenzo looked at Alessandro.
Alessandro looked back.
For the first time, the two powerful men seemed afraid of exactly the same thing.
“His name,” Alessandro said, “is Julian Cross.”
Clara waited.
Her father continued.
“And twenty-three years ago, Julian Cross nearly started a war between the Viti and Moretti families.”
Then Samuel enlarged the photograph.
Something gleamed around Marco's wrist.
Platinum.
Vincenzo stepped closer.
His missing watch.
But Alessandro saw something else.
Engraved beneath the watch clasp was a symbol almost invisible in the photograph.
A small fleur-de-lis.
Alessandro whispered one sentence.
“That isn't Carlo's watch.”
Moretti turned.
“What?”
Alessandro stared at the image.
“It looks like it.”
He lifted his eyes.
“But your father's real watch disappeared the night he died.”
May you like
And suddenly the theft inside the Sapphire Lounge became part of a mystery that had been waiting twenty-three years to begin again.
---
