The Name on the Sign

“What were you doing to him at 2:14?” I demanded again, clutching the soot-stained gold watch to my chest.

The beautiful restaurant around us suddenly felt like a tomb. The green tiles I had dreamed of for twenty-six years now looked like the walls of a cage.

Matteo straightened his posture. The mask of a loving husband was entirely gone. He looked at me with the same hollow, dead expression I had seen him give men before they disappeared from Chicago forever.

“Your father was a fool, Elena,” Matteo said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “He was sixty years old, drowning in debt, and refusing to sell his property to the commission. He was going to lose the restaurant to the bank in a week. I did him a favor.”

I couldn’t breathe. The air in the room felt thick and suffocating.

“A favor?” I choked out. “You burned him alive for a piece of land?”

“I didn’t burn him alive,” Matteo snapped, adjusting his cuffs. “He was already dead when the fire started. The fire was just… insurance.”

Answer one. My father didn’t die in a tragic accident. He was murdered.

Open two. If Matteo killed him before the fire, how did he die? And why keep the watch?

Sabrina let out a horrified gasp, covering her mouth with her hands. She backed away from Matteo, pressing herself against the pristine white counter of the open kitchen.

“You’re a monster,” Sabrina wept, her red dress trembling. “You told me you were a legitimate developer. You told me the mafia rumors were just old family gossip!”

Matteo finally looked at her. He didn’t look in love. He looked irritated.

“Grow up, Sabrina,” he sneered. “You think a twenty-six-year-old girl gets a two-million-dollar restaurant handed to her because she makes a decent marinara? You liked the money. Don’t pretend you cared where it came from.”

Sabrina’s face turned white. The fairy tale she had been living was shattering violently around her.

“I’m calling the police,” Sabrina said, turning toward the hostess stand to grab the landline.

“I wouldn’t do that, sweetheart.”

The voice came from the front entrance.

I spun around.

Standing beneath the sign bearing my father’s name was Thomas, Matteo’s oldest and most ruthless enforcer.

But Thomas wasn’t alone.

He was holding a woman by the arm. A woman with dark, curly hair and a terrified expression.

My daughter, Clara.

“Mom!” Clara screamed, struggling against Thomas’s grip.

“Let her go!” I shouted, surging forward.

Thomas pulled a heavy, black handgun from his jacket and pressed it directly into Clara’s ribs.

I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Clara was twenty-eight years old, a kindergarten teacher who had always begged me to leave Matteo’s dark world behind. And now, that world was holding a gun to her side.

“Matteo, tell him to let her go,” I begged, my voice breaking. “She’s your daughter.”

Matteo didn’t even look at Clara.

“She’s a liability,” Matteo said coldly. “Just like you.”

He walked slowly toward me, holding out his hand.

“Give me the watch, Elena. And you and Clara can walk out of here alive. You go back to the house, you pack a bag, and you move to Florida. If you ever come back to Chicago, I won’t be so generous.”

I looked at Clara. Tears were streaming down her face, but she was shaking her head.

“Don’t give it to him, Mom,” Clara cried. “It’s the only proof you have!”

“Listen to your husband, Elena,” Thomas warned, digging the barrel deeper into Clara’s side.

I looked down at the heavy gold watch in my hand. The soot stained my fingers. Thirty-one years of cooking, cleaning, and loving a man who had murdered the only person who ever truly believed in me.

I looked at the copper pot sitting on the stove behind Sabrina.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll give it to you.”

I took a slow step toward Matteo.

He smirked, a cruel, victorious curve of his lips. “Good girl. You always were sensible.”

I held out the watch.

But as Matteo reached for it, I didn’t drop it into his hand.

I threw the heavy gold watch directly at Thomas’s face with every ounce of strength I possessed.

The heavy metal struck the enforcer square in the bridge of his nose. Thomas cried out in pain, stumbling backward and dropping his grip on Clara.

“Clara, run!” I screamed.

Clara didn’t run toward the door. She lunged forward, grabbing Sabrina’s arm, and yanked the younger woman behind the heavy granite island of the open kitchen.

I dove behind them just as Thomas recovered, raising his gun and firing a shot that shattered the beautiful green tile where my head had been a second earlier.

The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed in the restaurant.

We were pinned behind the kitchen island.

“Elena!” Matteo roared, his voice pure fury. “You stupid bitch! You think you can fight me in my own city?”

I crouched on the floor, breathing heavily, pulling Clara and Sabrina close to me.

“Are you okay?” I whispered to my daughter.

Clara nodded, her eyes wide but surprisingly fierce. “I’m okay.”

Sabrina was sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Castellano. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

“I believe you,” I said, gripping her hand.

“I’m giving you three seconds to stand up and walk out from behind that counter!” Matteo shouted, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood as he moved closer.

I looked around the kitchen. My kitchen.

My eyes landed on the heavy, cast-iron skillet resting on the bottom shelf of the stove.

Then, Clara whispered something that made my blood run completely cold.

“Mom,” Clara breathed, her eyes fixed on the gap under the counter. “Look at his shoes.”

I looked down. Beneath the gap of the island, I could see Matteo’s expensive Italian leather shoes approaching.

But behind him, walking silently through the front door, were two pairs of heavy, mud-caked combat boots.

“Matteo?” a deep, gravelly voice echoed through the restaurant.

Matteo’s footsteps stopped instantly.