Chapter 2 - THE LANGUAGE ROMAN COULDN’T FAKE
Beatatrice stared at Harper’s hands as though someone had opened a window in a room she had forgotten could have air.
Then she signed back.
You know ASL?
Harper nodded.
My brother was deaf.
Beatatrice’s expression softened instantly.
Behind Harper, Roman said:
“What is she saying?”
Harper froze.
Not because of his voice.
Because Beatatrice’s face changed.
A second earlier, the older woman had been fully present in a conversation.
Now everyone else was talking around her again.
Harper turned back toward Roman.
“She asked if I know ASL.”
His dark eyes moved from Harper to his mother.
“And?”
“I told her my brother was deaf.”
Roman looked at Beatatrice.
Then, awkwardly, lifted one hand.
His fingers moved.
Slow.
Incorrectly.
Beatatrice watched.
Then gave him the smallest tired smile.
Harper understood.
Roman knew some signs.
Not enough.
Enough to say food.
Home.
Wait.
Love.
Probably family shorthand.
Not enough for anger.
Fear.
Dignity.
Anything complicated.
Roman looked at Harper.
“What did I say?”
She hesitated.
“What did you mean to say?”
His jaw tightened.
“Are you all right?”
Harper looked at his hand position.
“You said something closer to ‘Are you finished?’”
A bodyguard looked down to hide a reaction.
Roman noticed.
“Do not laugh.”
“No one laughed,” Harper said.
He looked at her.
“You wanted to.”
“Maybe.”
Beatatrice suddenly laughed.
Silent at first.
Then with a breathy sound that drew everyone’s attention.
She signed to Harper:
He has been signing badly since he was twelve.
Harper bit the inside of her cheek.
Roman narrowed his eyes.
“What did she say?”
Beatatrice looked innocent.
Harper chose honesty.
“She says you’ve been signing badly since you were twelve.”
Greg, still pale beside the table, almost choked.
Roman stared at his mother.
Beatatrice smiled.
The tension broke.
Not completely.
But enough.
Roman looked at Greg again.
The waiter had tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Greg whispered.
Beatatrice watched his mouth carefully this time.
He faced her directly.
No shouting.
No exaggeration.
“I was rude. I’m sorry.”
Beatatrice studied him.
Then signed to Harper.
Tell him I know he is sorry. Tell him not to do it again to someone else.
Harper translated.
Greg nodded repeatedly.
“I won’t.”
Roman looked dissatisfied.
Of course he did.
Punishment was simpler than education.
Harper saw it.
Beatatrice saw it too.
She reached across and tapped Roman’s wrist twice.
He looked down.
She signed one word he understood.
Enough.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Then loosened.
He released the moment.
“Go.”
Greg left so fast he nearly collided with Paul.
The manager immediately started apologizing.
Roman raised one hand.
Paul stopped.
“I’ll speak with you later.”
Paul went pale.
Harper looked toward Beatatrice.
The older woman rolled her eyes.
Harper almost laughed.
Roman saw that too.
“You find this funny?”
“No.”
Beatatrice signed:
Lie.
Harper smiled.
Roman looked between them.
“I don’t like not knowing what’s being said.”
There it was.
Harper answered before thinking.
“Your mother probably doesn’t either.”
Silence.
Roman’s face changed.
Not anger.
Something sharper.
Because the sentence hit somewhere private.
Beatatrice looked at Harper carefully.
Then signed:
Good.
Harper swallowed.
Roman sat again.
“Fine.”
He gestured toward the chair beside his mother.
“Sit.”
Harper blinked.
“I’m working.”
“You’re talking to my mother.”
“I can do that standing.”
Beatatrice patted the chair.
Harper looked at Paul.
He looked terrified enough to approve anything.
“Take the chair,” he whispered.
So Harper sat.
Roman watched as Beatatrice began signing.
Fast now.
Natural.
Her whole face changed.
Hands alive.
Expression brighter.
Harper answered slowly at first.
Her ASL was rusty.
Four years since Leo.
Four years since her hands had carried anything except trays.
Beatatrice noticed.
You have not signed in a long time.
Harper nodded.
Since my brother died.
The older woman’s hands stopped.
Her eyes softened.
How old?
Seventeen.
Younger than you.
Seven years.
Beatatrice reached across.
Not asking.
Then stopped herself.
Harper noticed.
That mattered.
She nodded permission.
Beatatrice squeezed her hand.
Roman saw.
“What happened?”
Harper looked at him.
“Leo died after complications from meningitis.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Beatatrice signed something.
Harper hesitated.
Roman caught it.
“What?”
“She says I shouldn’t stop speaking with my hands because he died.”
Harper’s throat tightened.
Roman looked at his mother.
Beatatrice continued.
A language should not be buried with one person.
Harper’s eyes filled.
She looked away.
No.
Not in the middle of a Michelin-starred dining room.
Not in front of Roman Moretti.
She blinked hard.
Then signed:
I know.
Beatatrice shook her head.
No. You understand the sentence. That is different.
Harper laughed through tears.
Roman watched every movement.
Not understanding.
But trying.
That was new.
Then his phone buzzed.
One bodyguard approached and murmured something.
Roman’s face hardened immediately.
Business.
Whatever softness existed disappeared behind armor.
He stood.
“We have to leave.”
Beatatrice’s expression fell.
She had barely eaten.
Roman noticed.
“Ma.”
She signed rapidly.
He stared.
Didn’t understand.
Harper did.
I do not want to go home yet.
Roman looked at Harper.
“What?”
Harper translated.
He frowned.
“We need to leave.”
Beatatrice signed again.
You need to leave. I do not.
Harper’s eyebrows rose.
Roman could read his mother’s face even if he couldn’t read her hands.
“No.”
Beatatrice crossed her arms.
The universal sign for argument.
Roman sighed.
“Ma.”
She looked away.
Harper had seen that dynamic before.
Protective son.
Strong mother.
One believing love entitled him to decide.
Beatatrice signed:
Ask him why I cannot stay.
Harper looked at Roman.
“Why can’t she?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Security.”
“She has four bodyguards.”
“Those are mine.”
Beatatrice tapped the table sharply.
Harper translated:
“She says she has lived seventy-eight years without becoming your luggage.”
One bodyguard coughed.
Roman glared.
Harper looked down quickly.
Then Roman surprised everyone.
He sat back down.
The bodyguard leaned closer.
“Boss—”
“Handle it without me.”
The man blinked.
Roman repeated:
“Go.”
The bodyguard left.
Beatatrice smiled like someone who had won a war.
Harper smiled too.
Roman looked irritated.
“Do not encourage her.”
“She doesn’t need encouragement.”
Beatatrice signed:
Correct.
Harper translated.
Roman rubbed a hand across his face.
For the first time, he looked less like a mafia boss than an exhausted son.
Dinner restarted.
Harper interpreted only when Beatatrice asked.
Not everything.
Important.
She also made Greg’s replacement face Beatatrice directly.
Moved one candle so the light fell better across everyone’s faces.
Asked the kitchen to provide a printed menu with larger type.
Simple changes.
No drama.
Beatatrice relaxed.
Roman noticed all of them.
That disturbed Harper.
Because his attention felt precise.
At the end of dinner, Beatatrice signed:
Come to lunch with me Sunday.
Harper blinked.
I work.
Monday.
I also work.
Beatatrice smiled.
Do you ever not work?
Harper looked down.
Not really.
Rent.
Medical debt left from Leo.
Her mother in Ohio.
No spare life.
Roman asked:
“What is she asking?”
Harper sighed.
“Lunch.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
Roman stared at his mother.
Then Harper.
“No.”
Beatatrice’s head snapped toward him.
Harper almost laughed.
Wrong word.
Roman realized instantly.
“I mean—”
Beatatrice signed rapidly.
Harper covered her mouth.
Roman looked alarmed.
“What?”
Harper translated carefully.
“She says you are not the appointment secretary for her social life.”
One bodyguard looked physically ill from holding in laughter.
Roman turned slowly.
“Marco.”
The man straightened.
“Yes, boss.”
“Leave.”
Marco left.
Harper laughed.
Couldn’t help it.
Roman looked at her.
Then, unexpectedly, smiled.
Barely.
Dangerously handsome.
That was a problem.
Harper stood quickly.
“I should go.”
Roman’s expression returned to neutral.
He reached into his jacket.
Harper stiffened.
He pulled out a card.
“Take this.”
She stared.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“It’s not money.”
She looked.
Private number.
No title.
Just ROMAN MORETTI.
“My mother wants to see you.”
“That’s between your mother and me.”
Beatatrice slapped the table once in approval.
Roman closed his eyes.
Harper took the card.
Mostly to end the argument.
Then Beatatrice hugged her.
Harper froze.
Warm cashmere.
Perfume.
Silver hair.
For one impossible second, she remembered Leo hugging her after finally understanding a joke everyone else had already heard.
Her throat closed.
She hugged back.
When Beatatrice released her, she signed:
Do not disappear again.
Harper nodded.
Then walked toward the kitchen.
Paul intercepted her.
His face was gray.
“What did you do?”
Harper frowned.
“Served dinner.”
“You sat with Roman Moretti.”
“His mother asked.”
“You laughed at him.”
“Technically his mother started it.”
Paul stared.
“You are either the bravest woman I have ever met or completely insane.”
Harper tied her apron tighter.
“Can I finish side work?”
He looked at her like she had lost her mind.
“Go home.”
For once, she obeyed.
At 12:14 a.m., Harper walked out the employee entrance.
Cold rain had stopped.
She had almost reached the subway when a black sedan pulled alongside the curb.
Her whole body tensed.
The rear window lowered.
Roman.
“Get in.”
Harper stared.
“No.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You always answer me like that?”
“Apparently.”
“I’m offering you a ride.”
“Then try asking.”
Silence.
He looked almost offended.
Then:
“Would you like a ride home?”
“No, thank you.”
The window started rising.
Then stopped.
Roman looked at her.
“My mother likes you.”
“I like her.”
“That’s rare.”
“What is?”
“She doesn’t like many people.”
Harper shrugged.
“She probably likes people who speak to her instead of around her.”
Roman’s expression tightened.
There it was again.
The bruise she kept touching without meaning to.
He asked:
“What does that mean?”
Harper should have walked away.
Instead:
“How much does your mother know about your business?”
His face went cold.
“Nothing she needs to know.”
“Exactly.”
Roman stared.
Harper continued:
“How much does she know about decisions involving her?”
Silence.
“Her doctors?”
His jaw tightened.
“Security?”
Nothing.
“Who comes to the house?”
Still nothing.
Harper stepped closer to the window.
“She’s deaf, Roman.”
His eyes sharpened at his first name.
“She’s not absent.”
Then she walked away.
This time the car did not follow.
The next morning, Harper found a message waiting on her phone.
Unknown number.
My mother wants lunch Tuesday at 1. This is me asking, not ordering. — Roman
Harper smiled before she could stop herself.
Then another message appeared.
From the same number.
Also, she says you were right. I hate that.
Harper laughed.
And three floors above a butcher shop in Queens, for the first time in four years, she raised her hands in front of the bathroom mirror and signed a sentence to nobody.
Maybe I’m not done speaking yet.
She was still looking at her reflection when her phone buzzed again.
This time the message was not from Roman.
No name.
No number she recognized.
Just seven words.
STOP TEACHING THE MORETTIS HOW TO TALK.
Harper’s smile disappeared.
May you like
And suddenly lunch with Beatatrice no longer felt like a simple invitation.
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