Chapter 7 - THE MAN WHO ATE AT OUR TABLE
The cufflink sat in the middle of Nicholas’s desk.
Nobody touched it.
Dominic arrived forty minutes later.
Nicholas did not ask him to sit.
His uncle saw the cufflink and closed his eyes.
“That’s mine.”
I felt something inside me harden.
“You said you lost it years ago.”
“I did.”
“Where?”
Dominic looked at me.
“In Sam’s car.”
The room seemed to stop.
Nicholas stepped forward.
“Explain.”
Dominic did not move.
“The night Sam died, I got into his car.”
I could hear my own heartbeat.
“You told us you didn’t.”
“I told you I didn’t follow him.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
Dominic looked ashamed.
“I followed him out of my apartment.”
My hands curled.
“Why?”
“To stop him from going to Nicholas.”
Nicholas laughed once.
“You really believed every road led to violence except the one where you lied to me.”
Dominic looked at him.
“I was wrong.”
“What happened in the car?” I asked.
Dominic turned toward me.
“Sam refused to stop.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“Touch him?”
“I grabbed the steering wheel.”
My breath caught.
Nicholas’s face changed.
“While he was driving?”
“For one second.”
“That could have killed him.”
“I know.”
Dominic’s voice broke slightly.
“I knew the second I did it.”
He reached toward the desk, then stopped.
“The cufflink caught beneath the seat.”
“So you were in his car.”
“Yes.”
“On the night he died.”
“Yes.”
“And you expected me to believe you didn’t kill him?”
Dominic’s eyes held mine.
“I got out in Cambridge.”
“Why?”
“Because Sam stopped the car and told me if I touched the wheel again, he would drive straight to a police station.”
Despite everything, that sounded like Sam.
“What time?”
“Ten-oh-five.”
Sam’s watch stopped at 10:46.
The crash was reported at 11:21.
There was still a gap.
Nicholas asked, “Where did Sam go?”
“West.”
“Concord?”
“I assumed.”
“Why?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Because he said he had one more person to see.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
I took the brass flower from my pocket.
“Did you take this?”
Dominic looked at it.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“It came off his keys when we argued.”
“And you kept it?”
His face looked older.
“I found it in my coat the next morning.”
“You could have given it to police.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told them you were in his car.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked at Nicholas.
“Because I knew what it would look like.”
I laughed bitterly.
“It looks worse now.”
“I know.”
Nicholas moved behind his desk.
“You’re staying in the house.”
Dominic frowned.
“I’m not a prisoner.”
“No.”
Nicholas’s voice was calm.
“But if you leave Boston before I know what happened to Sam, I will treat you like one.”
Dominic stared at him.
Then nodded once.
“Fair.”
He walked out.
I sank into a chair.
Nicholas remained standing.
“Clara.”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Did he kill Sam?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked up.
“If he did?”
Nicholas’s expression became empty.
That frightened me.
“If he did, he answers for it.”
“He raised you.”
“Yes.”
“You love him.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That mattered.
“And you would still—”
“Yes.”
He stopped himself.
Then corrected the sentence.
“I would make sure the truth does not disappear because I love him.”
That was not the answer I expected from a mafia boss.
It was better.
Which made it more dangerous.
Because I was beginning to trust him.
That night I could not sleep.
At midnight, I unlocked my bedroom door.
Nicholas was sitting on the hallway floor.
Back against the opposite wall.
Book in his hand.
I stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“In the hallway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He closed the book.
“You were upset.”
“So?”
“I thought you might need something.”
“You could have knocked.”
“You asked for privacy.”
“So you sat outside my door?”
“It seemed less intrusive.”
I actually laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
Nicholas stood.
“Do you need anything?”
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Tea.”
He nodded.
Five minutes later we sat in the kitchen at twelve-thirty in the morning.
No guards.
No Dominic.
No green ledger.
Just tea.
I asked, “Were you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Strange.”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
He looked at me over his cup.
“My father believed kindness created obligations.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It was efficient.”
“And you?”
“I watched what it did to my mother.”
The answer was quiet.
“She spent twenty-eight years owing him gratitude.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Nicholas looked toward the dark window.
“He bought her family a house. Paid her father’s debts. Put her brothers to work.”
“And she married him.”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“You married me because of a debt.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You gave me protection.”
“Yes.”
“And I married you.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Nicholas’s face changed.
Then he stood.
I thought I had offended him.
Instead, he walked to a drawer and removed a folder.
He placed it in front of me.
“One week after Corsetti is no longer a threat, this marriage can end.”
I stared.
“I already told you.”
“This is in writing.”
“I don’t want—”
“You don’t owe me gratitude.”
His voice was steady.
“You do not owe me your body. Your shop. Your money. Your name. Or a marriage after the danger is over.”
My throat tightened.
“Why show me this now?”
“Because tonight you laughed with me.”
He looked away.
“And I did not want you wondering later whether I was collecting moments you would have to repay.”
I could not speak.
Nicholas returned to his chair.
Something between us changed.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Something more fragile.
Choice.
The next afternoon, I went to Whitaker Flowers.
Nicholas came because I asked.
That mattered too.
We searched Sam’s old things again.
Not for numbers this time.
For places.
Pier Twelve.
Concord.
Cambridge.
Flowers marking delivery locations.
At four, I found an old city map folded beneath Mom’s desk.
Sam had circled Route 2.
One point near Concord.
A roadside restaurant called Hawthorne House.
I remembered it.
Our parents took us there once after apple picking.
Nicholas looked at the map.
“Sam crashed less than two miles from this place.”
We drove there before dinner.
Hawthorne House had changed owners but not much else.
Wood paneling.
Stone fireplace.
A wall of old photographs near the register.
Community dinners.
Christmas parties.
Local weddings.
The current owner let us look through a box of older photographs after I explained Sam had died nearby.
One photograph was dated the exact night of the crash.
A retirement party.
10:52 P.M.
Through the front window, visible behind the guests, was Sam’s car in the parking lot.
He had made it to Hawthorne House.
He had not crashed at 10:46 when his watch stopped.
He had gone somewhere after Dominic left.
Nicholas turned the photograph over.
Nothing.
Then I looked closer.
Sam stood near the edge of the frame.
Alive.
White carnations still in his hand.
Facing another man.
The man’s back was toward the camera.
Dark wool coat.
Silver at the temples.
My stomach dropped.
“Dominic.”
Nicholas leaned closer.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“That coat isn’t his.”
“How can you tell?”
Nicholas pointed toward the cuff.
A thin red stitch ran along the sleeve.
He knew it.
I saw that immediately.
“Whose?”
Nicholas went pale.
“My father had that coat made for one person.”
I waited.
May you like
He looked at me.
“For Anthony Corsetti.”
