Chapter 2 - THE HANDWRITTEN NOTE
The tiny brass key rested in the center of Kate’s trembling palm.
Roman DeLuca’s words hung in the suffocating silence of the restaurant. Because my wife left a note with that name on it.
Kate felt the blood drain from her face. She took a slow step backward, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly against the polished hardwood floor. The bustling noise of the Rosewood Grill seemed to mute, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breathing.
“You’re lying,” Kate whispered.
Roman didn’t blink. His dark eyes remained fixed on her face, analyzing every micro-expression.
“I do not lie to waitresses, Miss Miller,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “And I do not lie about my wife.”
Before Kate could respond, the restaurant manager, Terry, marched back over. His face was flushed with a mix of corporate anxiety and misplaced authority.
“Mr. DeLuca, I apologize for the disruption,” Terry stammered, deliberately stepping between Roman and Kate. “Kate is new. I will have her clock out immediately. Your meal is entirely on the house.”
Roman didn’t even look at Terry.
He simply raised his right hand, extending one single finger.
Marco, the massive bodyguard who had been standing silently by the window, stepped forward. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t yell. He merely placed a heavy, calloused hand on Terry’s shoulder and squeezed. Terry’s face went completely pale.
“The manager is leaving,” Roman said quietly.
Terry swallowed hard, nodded frantically, and practically sprinted toward the kitchen.
Roman finally broke his gaze away from Kate and looked down at his five-year-old son. Eli was still standing beside Kate, his small hand gripping the fabric of her black uniform apron. The boy’s eyes were wide, filled with a desperate, heartbreaking hope.
“Eli,” Roman said softly. “Get your coat. We are leaving.”
“Is she coming?” Eli asked, his small voice echoing in the quiet dining room.
“Yes.”
“No,” Kate interrupted, her protective instincts overriding her fear. “I am not going anywhere with you. I don’t care who you are. I don’t know your wife. I don’t know anything about a note.”
Roman stood up fully. He was an imposing man, built with the broad shoulders of a street fighter but dressed in a bespoke Italian suit that cost more than Kate’s car.
“Whoever killed my wife eleven months ago was thorough,” Roman said, taking a step toward her. “They disabled her car brakes on a mountain road. They scrubbed the security cameras. And they searched her belongings. If my wife left a note with your name on it, Kate, I am not the only one looking for you.”
A cold chill raced down Kate’s spine.
“You’re trying to scare me,” she said.
“I am trying to keep you breathing,” Roman corrected. “My car is out front. It is armored. My men are armed. Walk out those doors alone, and you might not make it to the subway.”
Kate looked at the brass key in her hand. Then she looked down at Eli. The little boy was trembling, his knuckles white as he held onto her apron.
“The monsters will get you,” Eli whispered, his blue eyes filling with tears. “Mommy said the monsters always look for the keys.”
That broke her.
Kate nodded slowly. She untied her apron, dropped it on the booth, and took Eli’s hand.
The walk to the front doors felt like a march to the gallows. The entire restaurant watched them leave in absolute silence. Outside, the frigid Boston wind whipped against Kate’s face. Two massive, black SUVs idled at the curb. Marco opened the back door of the lead vehicle.
Kate climbed in, settling Eli gently onto the leather seat beside her. Roman slid in opposite them. The heavy doors closed, shutting out the city noise completely.
“Drive,” Roman ordered.
The SUV smoothly pulled into traffic. The interior was pitch black, illuminated only by the passing streetlights.
Roman reached inside his tailored jacket. He pulled out a thick, sealed plastic evidence bag. He laid it flat on the console between them and flicked on the overhead reading light.
“The police missed this in the wreckage of her car,” Roman said quietly. “My people found it tucked inside the lining of her purse.”
Kate leaned forward.
Inside the plastic bag was a piece of heavy, cream-colored stationery. The edges were singed, and a dark, rusted stain covered the bottom corner. Blood.
Kate’s breath caught in her throat as she read the handwritten words.
If I don't come home, find Kate Miller in Worcester. The melody holds the lock. She has the other key.
“It makes no sense,” Roman said, staring at the paper. “My wife’s name was Sofia. She grew up in a wealthy family in Chicago. She went to boarding schools in Europe. She had never stepped foot in Worcester, Massachusetts.”
Kate wasn’t listening to his words. She was staring at the ink.
The slant of the letters. The peculiar way the letter ‘M’ was looped. The sharp, aggressive cross of the ‘T’.
Her heart began to hammer violently against her ribs. The air in the SUV suddenly felt too thin.
“This isn’t possible,” Kate choked out, her hands shaking as she hovered her fingers over the plastic bag.
“Do you know what it means?” Roman demanded, leaning closer. “Do you know what the key opens?”
“It’s not what it opens,” Kate whispered, her vision blurring with sudden tears. “It’s who wrote it.”
Roman frowned. “I told you. My wife wrote it.”
“Your wife’s name was Sofia?” Kate asked, her voice cracking.
“Yes.”
Kate reached into her purse with trembling hands. She bypassed her wallet and pulled out a small, worn leather cardholder. From the deepest pocket, she extracted a single, faded Polaroid photograph.
She placed it on the console, directly next to the blood-stained note.
The photograph showed two young girls standing on the porch of a rundown house. Kate was the younger one, maybe seven years old, missing a front tooth. The older girl, around sixteen, had her arm wrapped fiercely around Kate’s shoulders. The older girl had piercing green eyes, dark hair, and a defiant half-smile.
Roman stared at the photograph. The color instantly drained from his face. The untouchable, terrifying mafia boss looked suddenly, violently ill.
“Where did you get this?” Roman demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, ragged whisper.
“That’s my older sister,” Kate said, a tear finally spilling over her eyelashes and tracing down her cheek. “Her name wasn’t Sofia. It was Sarah.”
Roman shook his head. “No. That’s my wife. I would know her face anywhere.”
“You’re wrong,” Kate said, looking Roman dead in the eye. A wave of profound grief mixed with a shocking new reality washed over her.
May you like
“Your wife didn’t die in a car crash eleven months ago, Roman,” Kate whispered, tapping the faded Polaroid. “My sister died in a house fire ten years ago.”
Roman stared at the photograph, the silence in the armored car turning utterly deafening.
