Chapter 2 - The Ninety-Seven Dollars
Alessandro Romano did not blink. He stared at the ninety-seven dollars sitting on the chipped Formica counter as if the faded bills were written in a language he had never been forced to read.
In his world, people did not offer change. They offered compliance. They offered apologies. They offered their lives.
They did not demand three dollars for a broken coffee cup.
The silence in Rosie’s Diner stretched so tight I thought it might snap and shatter the front windows. Behind me, I could hear Dana’s uneven, terrified breathing. Victor Russo stepped forward, his silver-templed head tilting, his hand sliding beneath his tailored suit jacket.
“Boss,” Victor murmured, his voice like gravel. “Let me handle this.”
“No.” Alessandro’s voice was dangerously soft. He didn’t look at Victor. His dark, piercing eyes remained locked on my face.
He slowly lifted his right hand. Victor froze. The guard at the door stopped moving.
Alessandro reached toward the pile of money. His long, calloused fingers brushed against the green paper, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he reached inside his charcoal overcoat for a second time.
My stomach plummeted. I braced my hands against the counter, refusing to step back, even as my mind screamed at me to run.
He didn’t pull out a weapon.
He pulled out a small, rectangular piece of faded blue cardboard.
He set it on the counter, right next to the ninety-seven dollars, and slid it toward me.
“I don’t want the change,” Alessandro said, his tone entirely stripped of its earlier arrogance. “I want to know where you got this.”
I looked down.
My breath caught in my throat. The diner around me seemed to blur into static.
It was a ferry ticket. Specifically, a ticket for the Staten Island Ferry, dated October 14, 1998. But it wasn’t just any ticket. In the upper right corner, written in a familiar, looping cursive, were three letters: E.R.M.
Eleanor Rose Miller.
My mother.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered, the false bravery I had clung to seconds ago crumbling into genuine shock.
“I asked you first,” Alessandro replied. His eyes scanned my face, searching for a lie. “My men have been tearing this city apart for six weeks looking for the woman who dropped this ticket outside a private clinic. A woman who was supposed to be dead.”
My heart slammed violently against my ribs. Dead? My mother wasn’t dead. She was sitting in a recliner four blocks away, attached to an oxygen tank she couldn't afford to refill.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied. It was a clumsy, desperate lie, and we both knew it.
Alessandro’s jaw tightened. He leaned in closer, close enough that I could smell the sharp scent of winter air and expensive cedar on his skin.
“If you are protecting her,” Alessandro said quietly, “you are signing her death warrant. The people looking for her won’t ask for three dollars when they find her.”
He didn't wait for my response. He turned on his heel and walked toward the glass door. Victor cast one final, chilling look at me before following his boss into the freezing November rain.
I stared at the blue ferry ticket on the counter, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
1998. The year we moved to this city. The year my mother told me my father had died in a car crash.
I stripped off my pale-blue apron and threw it onto the espresso machine.
“Dana, lock the doors,” I ordered, grabbing my coat.
“Nora, wait, you have ten minutes left on your shift!” Rosa called from the kitchen window.
“I have to go,” I said, shoving the ferry ticket into my pocket.
I ran the four blocks to our apartment building, my lungs burning in the frigid air. The stairwell light was flickering. I took the steps two at a time, panic rising like bile in my throat.
When I reached the third floor, I stopped dead.
The door to Apartment 3B was cracked open.
The deadbolt was splintered.
I pushed the door open slowly, my hands trembling as I reached for the umbrella stand by the entrance, grabbing the heavy wooden handle.
“Mom?” I whispered into the dark hallway.
No answer. Only the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of her oxygen concentrator in the living room.
I crept forward, my heart hammering in my ears.
I turned the corner into the living room.
My mother was still in her recliner, her eyes wide with sheer terror. But she wasn't looking at me.
She was looking at the man sitting casually on our faded floral sofa.
May you like
He was wearing a charcoal overcoat, identical to Alessandro’s. But the face was younger, crueler, with a jagged scar cutting across his left eyebrow. He was twirling my mother’s emergency medical alert bracelet around his index finger.
“Hello, Nora,” the man said, smiling a smile that didn't reach his dead eyes. “I hear you make a terrible cup of coffee.”
