Chapter 3 - THE RED SWEATER
My vision blurred. The silver pocket watch felt like a burning coal in my palm.
"What are you talking about?" I whispered, forgetting to sign. My voice trembled so violently I barely recognized it. "Leo got sick. It was a fever. A bacterial infection."
Salvatore stepped closer. He didn't invade my space, but his presence was undeniable. The smell of cedar and expensive cologne wrapped around me, grounding me in the terrifying reality of the room.
He raised his hands again, his movements deliberate, forcing me to watch.
"It wasn't a random infection, Tessa. It was environmental poisoning. Black mold. Heavy metals in the water supply."
I shook my head, taking a step back. My worn shoes squeaked against the polished wood.
"No. We lived in a normal apartment. The doctors said—"
"The doctors," Salvatore signed, his face hardening, "worked for the clinic funded by the man who owned your building. The same man who paid them to log it as a standard viral fever."
My stomach dropped.
Four years ago. The cramped, freezing apartment in the South Loop. The water that always tasted faintly of copper. The dark stains blooming across the ceiling that the landlord’s maintenance guy just painted over.
Leo had burned with a fever for five days. By the time it broke, the silence had settled into his world permanently.
"Who?" I asked, my hands flashing the sign violently. "Who owned the building?"
Salvatore didn’t sign the answer. He reached into his leather folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the table toward me.
It was a property deed from four years ago.
I looked at the signature at the bottom.
Richard Vance.
The man who had owned this restaurant until three minutes ago. The man I had been working for, breaking my back for, polishing his crystal and serving his wealthy friends, while he sat on the fortune he made by poisoning my little brother.
A sickening wave of nausea washed over me. I gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling.
"Why are you telling me this?" I breathed, staring at Salvatore. "Why do you have a picture of my brother?"
Salvatore’s eyes darkened. The warmth I had seen earlier was completely gone, replaced by a cold, calculated intensity that finally matched his reputation.
"Because Vance didn't just hurt your brother," Salvatore signed. "He did the same thing to my sister. And I have spent three years hunting for the blind spot in his empire."
He pointed to the watch in my hand.
"Vance keeps trophies," Salvatore continued. "He takes something from the people he ruins. A reminder of his power. He kept that photograph in his private safe. My men cracked it two days ago."
I looked down at the faded picture of Leo in the red sweater. I remembered the day it was taken. We had been at the park. A man had walked by, snapping photos of the playground. I hadn't thought anything of it.
"So you bought this restaurant to get back at him?" I asked.
"I bought this restaurant to get his attention," Salvatore corrected aloud, his voice deep and gravelly. "But I need you to help me destroy him."
He handed me a heavy brass key.
"I own an old textile warehouse on 18th Street. Meet me there tomorrow at noon. Don't tell anyone."
Before I could process what was happening, Salvatore walked past me, his three security men falling into step behind him as he exited the restaurant.
I was left alone in the private dining room, holding a brass key and a silver watch containing a shattered piece of my past.
I didn't wait to see the fallout in the kitchen. I grabbed my coat, shoved through the back alley door, and ran three blocks to the subway in the freezing Chicago rain.
The ride home was a blur of neon lights and rattling metal. My mind spun in agonizing circles. Richard Vance. The water. The painted-over mold.
I had blamed myself for four years. I had worked double shifts to afford Leo's hearing aids, thinking I had failed to protect him from a random tragedy.
It wasn't a tragedy. It was a business decision.
I unlocked the deadbolt to our tiny, two-bedroom apartment. The lights were off, save for the small lamp in the living room.
My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was asleep on the sofa. I paid her twenty dollars a night to sit with Leo while I worked the late shift.
I quietly slipped a twenty onto the coffee table and nudged her awake. She smiled, gathered her knitting, and shuffled out the door with a sleepy goodbye.
I walked into Leo's bedroom.
He was eight years old now. He was curled up under a heavy quilt, his breathing even and peaceful. His hearing aids rested on the nightstand, right next to a small wooden lamp.
I sat on the edge of the bed, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.
I pulled the silver pocket watch from my coat pocket and opened it, looking from the four-year-old boy in the photo to the eight-year-old boy sleeping in front of me.
Suddenly, Leo shifted. His eyes fluttered open.
He saw my tears immediately. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and reached out to touch my cheek.
"Why are you crying?" he signed, his small hands clumsy with sleep.
"I'm okay, buddy," I signed back, forcing a smile. "Just a long night at work."
Leo’s eyes dropped to the open pocket watch in my lap. He stared at the photograph.
Then, his brow furrowed.
He looked up at me.
"Where did you get that?" he signed.
"A man gave it to me," I replied.
Leo’s hands moved quickly, fear flashing in his eyes.
"The man with the scar?"
My blood ran completely cold.
"What?" I signed, my hands stiff. "Leo, how do you know about a man with a scar?"
May you like
Leo pulled the quilt up to his chin. He looked terrified.
"Because," Leo signed slowly. "He was in my classroom yesterday. He told me to tell you he was sorry."
