Chapter 2 - THE POCKET WATCH
“Your landlord is raising your rent to three thousand dollars.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights of Rosie’s diner. The smell of burnt coffee suddenly made me nauseous.
I stared at Dominic Salvatore. My hands gripped the edge of the Formica table so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“How do you know that?” my voice trembled, though I tried desperately to keep it steady. “I just got the notice slipped under my door this morning. I haven’t even told my boss yet.”
Dominic didn’t blink. He slowly set down his fork.
“When a woman pulls me from a burning Lincoln Navigator and disappears into the night, I don’t just let it go,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the diner’s ambient noise. “I have resources, Emma. It took me three weeks to find you because you don’t exist on social media. You pay in cash. You work double shifts. You are practically a ghost.”
“I’m a mother,” I corrected sharply.
His dark eyes softened just a fraction. “I know. Lily. She’s six. She goes to the public school on 4th Avenue, and she loves drawing butterflies.”
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through my chest.
I slid out of the booth, my squeaking shoes completely forgotten. “If you or your men ever go near my daughter—”
“Sit down, Emma.”
It wasn't a threat. It was a plea.
The four massive men standing by the diner’s exits shifted their weight. Dominic raised a single finger, and they instantly froze, melting back into the shadows.
“I didn't look into your life to threaten you,” Dominic said softly, leaning forward. “I looked into your life to protect you. When you saved me, you ruined a hit ordered by the Moretti family. They have been looking for the mystery woman who pulled me out. If they find you before I secure your safety, they will use you to get to me.”
I swallowed hard, slowly lowering myself back into the vinyl booth. My heart was hammering against my ribs.
“I don't want your money,” I whispered. “I just want to be left alone.”
“You can’t be left alone anymore,” he replied gently. “Your landlord is raising the rent because the building was bought by a Moretti shell company yesterday. They are squeezing the tenants. They are closing in.”
He reached into the inner pocket of his expensive charcoal suit.
For a terrifying second, I thought he was pulling out a weapon. Instead, he placed a small, tarnished silver object on the table between us.
I stopped breathing.
It was a silver pocket watch. The glass face was cracked, and the hands were frozen at 11:14. The casing was heavily dented, but I recognized the intricate engraving of a weeping willow on the cover.
It was Mark’s.
My husband’s watch.
He had it in his pocket the night he died, two years ago. The police told me his car had veered off the interstate into a ravine because he fell asleep at the wheel. They handed me a plastic bag of his effects, but the watch had been missing. They said it must have been lost in the wreckage.
I reached out with a trembling hand, tracing the cracked glass. A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and unbidden.
“Where did you get this?” I choked out.
May you like
Dominic’s eyes were locked on mine, completely stripped of their mob-boss armor. He looked at me with profound, devastating pity.
“He didn't fall asleep at the wheel, Emma,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He was run off the road by the same men who blew up my car. And they took that watch as a trophy.”
