Chapter 2 - Dinner at the Russo House
Ava did not sleep.
At 6:42 the next evening, she stood outside Dominic Russo’s townhouse on East Seventy-Third Street wondering whether desperation had finally made her stupid.
The building looked nothing like she expected.
No guards visible on the sidewalk.
No black iron fortress.
Just limestone, tall windows, and one discreet security camera above the entrance.
The door opened before she knocked.
A gray-haired woman smiled.
“Miss Collins?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Rosa. Eli has been watching the window for twenty minutes.”
That hurt more than it should have.
Inside, the townhouse felt surprisingly warm.
Bookshelves.
Family photographs.
A grand piano.
A half-finished Lego castle on a coffee table.
And Eli.
He came running from the hallway, stopped himself at the last second, then signed quickly.
You came.
Ava smiled.
I said I might.
Eli frowned.
Dad said you would.
“Your dad is apparently very confident.”
Eli grinned.
Dominic entered.
No tie tonight.
Black trousers, white shirt, sleeves folded once.
Without the suit jacket and restaurant silence around him, he appeared less like a newspaper headline.
That somehow made him more dangerous.
“Miss Collins.”
“Mr. Russo.”
Eli looked between them and signed:
You both talk like lawyers.
Ava laughed.
Dominic stared at his son.
“What did he say?”
“You don’t know?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
He knew some signing.
Not enough.
That became obvious during dinner.
Dominic understood basic questions, simple answers, household words.
Food.
School.
Sleep.
Stop.
Yes.
No.
But Eli communicated in complete thoughts.
Complex ones.
Ava watched father and son struggle across a distance of only four feet.
It wasn’t lack of love.
That became obvious too.
Dominic watched Eli constantly.
He noticed when the boy’s water became warm.
When he pushed mushrooms aside.
When his cuff caught against the table.
He anticipated every physical need.
But conversation was different.
Conversation required a language Dominic had never fully learned.
After dinner, Eli showed Ava his room.
Model airplanes covered one shelf.
Books covered another.
A huge map of New York covered the wall.
On the desk sat a photograph of a beautiful woman holding a toddler.
Eli saw Ava looking.
My mom.
Ava’s smile softened.
She’s beautiful.
She died.
Ava’s hands stopped.
I’m sorry.
Eli shrugged with the forced carelessness children sometimes used around pain.
Then he signed:
Dad thinks I don’t remember her.
Do you?
A little.
He touched the photograph.
She smelled like oranges.
Ava swallowed.
Then Eli added:
Dad stopped signing after Mom died.
Ava looked toward the open door.
Dominic was standing in the hallway.
He had understood that sentence.
His expression made it clear.
Later, after Rosa took Eli upstairs for his bath, Dominic poured coffee in the library.
“You think I’m a bad father.”
Ava remained standing.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“I think you love him.”
“That sounded charitable.”
“I think loving someone and knowing how to reach them are different things.”
Dominic’s expression cooled.
“You’ve known my son twenty-four hours.”
“And in twenty-four hours I’ve learned he has things he wants to tell you.”
“I understand him.”
“No. You predict him.”
The silence became dangerous.
Ava should have stopped.
She didn’t.
“You know which cereal he likes. You know when he’s tired. You know he hates mushrooms. But when he talks about his mother, you lose half the sentence.”
Dominic set down his cup.
“Careful.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The thing everybody does around you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Explain.”
“They get scared, so they stop saying what you need to hear.”
Dominic took one slow step toward her.
Ava’s pulse raced.
But she held her ground.
“You want to know why your son trusted me?”
Dominic waited.
“Because when he dropped that glass, everybody watched you.”
Ava pointed toward the ceiling.
“Eli watched you too.”
Dominic said nothing.
“I watched Eli.”
Something in Dominic’s face changed.
Not anger.
Pain.
He looked toward the staircase.
“How much?”
“What?”
“To teach me.”
Ava blinked.
“Teach you?”
“Sign language.”
“You have instructors.”
“I asked you.”
“Why?”
“Because Eli trusts you.”
“That isn’t a reason to trust me.”
Dominic looked back at her.
“No. It isn’t.”
The statement chilled her.
He knew.
Maybe not everything.
But he knew Ava Collins was hiding something.
“What happened to Eli’s mother?” she asked.
Dominic’s expression closed instantly.
“Not your concern.”
“Fine.”
Ava collected her coat.
Before leaving, she turned.
“One condition.”
“For lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Name it.”
“You learn as his father. Not as Dominic Russo.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What does that mean?”
“No assistants. No people answering for you. No quitting because something makes you uncomfortable.”
“You’re remarkably demanding for someone I’m hiring.”
“You called me.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“One hour. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Fine.”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Seven thirty. I work.”
“Fine.”
Ava reached the front door.
“Miss Collins.”
She stopped.
Dominic held the photograph she had received the previous night.
Jamie outside the warehouse.
Her blood turned cold.
She touched her coat pocket.
Empty.
He had taken it.
“When did you—”
“You dropped it upstairs.”
Ava couldn’t breathe.
Dominic looked at Jamie.
Then at the younger version of himself standing in the background.
“Who is he?”
Ava considered lying.
For seven years, lies had protected her.
But looking at Dominic now, she understood something terrifying.
He genuinely did not recognize Jamie.
“My brother.”
Dominic’s expression sharpened.
“Daniel?”
“No.”
“What’s his name?”
Ava barely managed the word.
“Jamie.”
Dominic looked back at the photograph.
The color slowly left his face.
And for the first time since Ava had met him, Dominic Russo looked afraid.
“Where did you get this?”
“Why?”
His gaze snapped toward her.
“Because the warehouse behind your brother burned down seven years ago.”
Ava stopped.
Dominic continued.
“And because three men died the night that photograph was taken.”
“My brother wasn’t one of them.”
“No.”
Dominic turned the photograph over.
He saw the message.
ASK HIM WHAT JAMIE SAW.
His expression became unreadable.
Then he said something Ava had waited seven years to hear.
“Your brother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Ava stared at him.
Dominic lowered his voice.
“And if the person who sent you this photograph knows you’re here…”
He crossed the room and locked the front door.
May you like
“…then whoever killed Jamie knows exactly where to find you.”
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