Chapter 2 - THE HAND ON HER WRIST
“Who are you?”
Rico’s question was quiet.
That made it worse.
Clara stopped beside the table with the glass of warm milk in both hands.
Every instinct told her to leave.
The manager was staring at her as if she had already been fired.
Dante, the enormous bodyguard Leo had bitten, held a napkin against the blood on his hand.
Two other men in dark suits watched Clara without blinking.
And Rico Moretti looked at her the way men like him looked at locked doors.
As if he was deciding whether to open them or destroy them.
“Clara Vance,” she said.
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know better than to approach this table without permission.”
Clara glanced at Leo.
The boy had stopped throwing things.
But he was still crying so hard his little shoulders shook.
“I know.”
Rico’s eyes narrowed.
“And yet you came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Clara slowly lowered herself onto one knee beside Leo’s chair.
“Because everybody keeps trying to make him stop.”
Rico’s jaw tightened.
“That is generally the objective when a child is screaming.”
Clara didn’t look at him.
“Sometimes screaming gets worse when everybody tells you it’s wrong.”
The restaurant seemed to hold its breath.
Rico leaned back.
“You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t have Marco throw you out.”
Clara set the milk on the table.
Then she looked at Leo.
Not into his eyes.
Just near him.
“You don’t have to drink this.”
Leo hiccupped through tears.
Clara continued softly.
“You don’t have to eat.”
Another breath.
“You don’t have to stop crying.”
Rico’s expression changed slightly.
Clara put both hands in her lap.
“But nobody’s touching you right now.”
Leo looked at her.
His crying slowed.
Not stopped.
Slowed.
Clara kept her voice almost conversational.
“You can sit.”
The boy swallowed.
“You can breathe.”
Another hiccup.
“And when you’re ready, the milk is warm.”
Leo stared at the glass.
Then at Clara.
His fingers unclenched from his shirt.
Rico noticed.
So did everyone else.
Clara moved the milk closer.
Leo lifted it with both hands.
He took one sip.
Then another.
The screaming disappeared.
The silence afterward felt almost unnatural.
Rico sat completely still.
Leo drank half the glass.
Then put it down.
Clara smiled faintly.
“There.”
Rico’s gaze moved from his son to her.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“He has been screaming for forty minutes.”
“I didn’t make him stop.”
Rico’s eyes hardened.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not.”
Clara looked at Leo.
“He stopped because nobody was trying to control him for thirty seconds.”
Rico leaned forward.
“You think I don’t know how to handle my own son?”
Clara finally met his eyes.
“I think you’re scared.”
Every person within hearing distance seemed to stop breathing.
Dante muttered:
“Jesus Christ.”
Rico’s face became unreadable.
“Careful.”
Clara’s pulse hammered.
But she didn’t take it back.
“He’s scared too.”
Rico said nothing.
Leo suddenly reached out.
His small hand closed around Clara’s wrist.
Not tightly.
Just enough to keep her from standing.
Clara froze.
Rico looked down.
Leo stared at her hand.
Then slowly turned it over.
Palm upward.
His tiny index finger touched a pale scar near the base of Clara’s thumb.
A thin white line.
Old.
Almost invisible.
Clara stopped breathing.
Leo traced it once.
Then whispered:
“Mama.”
Rico went rigid.
Nobody moved.
Clara’s face drained of color.
Leo touched the scar again.
“Mama.”
Rico stood so quickly his chair struck the floor behind him.
“What did he say?”
Clara pulled her hand back instinctively.
Leo immediately whimpered.
“No.”
Clara stopped.
The child grabbed her wrist again.
This time harder.
“Mama hand.”
Rico stared at Clara.
His expression had changed from anger to something much more dangerous.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I have never met your son before tonight.”
Leo shook his head.
“Mama.”
Then he pointed at Clara’s wrist.
“Fire.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
Rico’s eyes sharpened.
“What did he say?”
Leo repeated:
“Fire.”
Clara looked at the boy.
Something cold moved through her.
She knew that word.
Not because of Leo.
Because of herself.
Her scar was from a kitchen fire five years earlier.
At least that was the story she had told every employer since coming to New York.
The simpler story.
The safer story.
Rico crouched beside his son.
“Leo.”
The child looked at him.
“What fire?”
Leo’s lower lip began to tremble.
Rico softened his tone in a way Clara had not heard before.
“Papa’s here.”
Leo pressed Clara’s wrist against his cheek.
Then whispered:
“Mama car.”
Rico’s face went white.
Clara saw it happen.
The feared mafia boss suddenly looked like a widower again.
“What about Mama’s car?”
Leo closed his eyes.
“Fire lady.”
Rico stared at Clara.
Clara shook her head.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“You have a scar. My son sees it and talks about his dead mother’s car.”
“I don’t know why.”
Rico stepped closer.
“Where were you six months ago?”
Clara’s heart slammed.
“Working.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
Wrong move.
Rico saw it.
“Where?”
“Queens.”
“Doing what?”
“Private catering.”
“For who?”
“I don’t remember every client.”
Rico’s eyes turned cold again.
“Try.”
Clara stood slowly.
Leo refused to release her.
She looked down at his little hand around her wrist.
The room felt too warm.
Six months ago.
A catering job.
A private house in Bay Ridge.
Then a parking lot.
A black SUV.
Gunfire.
Glass breaking.
Flames.
Clara had spent six months pretending she remembered less than she did.
Because remembering had almost gotten her killed.
Rico watched her face.
“You do know something.”
Clara whispered:
“I know there was a fire.”
Dante moved instantly.
His injured hand disappeared beneath his jacket.
Rico raised one finger.
He stopped.
“What fire?”
Clara looked toward the restaurant windows.
“You said your wife died in a drive-by.”
Rico’s eyes darkened.
“Everyone knows that.”
“No.”
Clara swallowed.
“I mean everybody thinks the car caught fire after the shooting.”
Rico’s voice became almost inaudible.
“It did.”
Clara shook her head.
“That’s not what I saw.”
The entire room seemed to disappear around them.
Rico stepped closer.
“What did you see?”
Clara looked at Leo.
He was still gripping her wrist.
Six months of silence.
Six months of nightmares.
Six months of changing apartments twice.
Changing jobs three times.
Avoiding newspapers whenever Elena Moretti’s name appeared.
Clara had believed staying invisible was the only reason she was alive.
Then a three-year-old recognized her scar.
“I was working a catering job two blocks away.”
Rico didn’t blink.
“Continue.”
“I heard shots.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Five. Six.”
“Then?”
“I ran outside.”
Dante stared at her now.
“You ran toward gunfire?”
“I didn’t know what it was.”
Rico said:
“What did you see?”
Clara’s voice shook despite everything she did to control it.
“A black SUV against a parked car.”
Rico’s face hardened.
Elena’s vehicle had been black.
“Your wife’s?”
“I didn’t know then.”
“What else?”
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
“A woman was inside.”
Rico’s hand tightened into a fist.
“And?”
“There was smoke.”
“You said that wasn’t from the shooting.”
Clara looked directly at him.
“Because I saw someone pour something through the broken window.”
Rico stopped breathing.
Dante whispered:
“What?”
“A woman.”
Rico’s voice was suddenly sharp.
“You saw a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Face?”
“No.”
“Clothes?”
“Dark coat.”
“Hair?”
“Covered.”
“What did she pour?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gasoline?”
“It smelled like it.”
Rico grabbed the back of the chair.
Clara continued.
“I started toward the car.”
Dante stared.
“Why?”
“Because there was someone inside.”
“And then?”
“A man grabbed me.”
Rico’s head snapped up.
“What man?”
“I never saw his face.”
“What did he do?”
“He pulled me backward.”
Clara looked down at her scar.
“I grabbed the car door trying to get away. The metal was already hot.”
Leo touched the scar again.
Rico looked from Clara’s hand to his son.
“You were there.”
It wasn’t a question now.
Clara nodded.
Then Leo whispered something else.
One word.
“Red.”
Rico crouched again.
“What red?”
Leo pointed toward Clara.
“No.”
Then toward the restaurant entrance.
“Red lady.”
Everyone turned.
A woman had just entered Il Destino.
Elegant.
Forty-something.
Red coat.
Rico stared at her.
Clara didn’t recognize the woman.
But Leo did.
His entire body changed.
The milk glass fell from his hands and shattered.
He screamed.
Not the furious scream from earlier.
This one was terror.
Raw.
Animal.
“Mama fire!”
The woman in the red coat stopped.
Her face drained of color.
Rico slowly stood.
Dante immediately moved between Leo and the entrance.
The woman turned to leave.
Rico’s voice cut across the restaurant.
“Lock the doors.”
Four men moved at once.
The woman froze.
Clara looked at Rico.
“Who is she?”
May you like
He didn’t take his eyes off the red coat.
“My wife’s sister.”
