Chapter 3 - THE DRAWING
The restaurant around me dissolved into a dull, rushing blur. The clinking of silverware, the soft Sinatra music, the low hum of conversation—it all faded into nothing.
“Excuse me?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, but his dark eyes remained locked onto mine.
“I said, I was there the night your father died.”
I pushed my chair back so fast it screeched against the hardwood floor. Several heads turned toward our table, but Nicholas’s bodyguards immediately stepped forward, blocking the view of the other patrons.
“You’re lying,” I choked out, my hands gripping the edge of the table. “The police report said he lost control of his truck on the ice. They found him in the water. It was an accident.”
“The police in this precinct wrote what they were paid to write,” Nicholas replied calmly.
Margaret placed a trembling hand over her mouth. “Nicky... is this Thomas? Henry’s Thomas?”
Nicholas nodded once to his mother before looking back at me.
“My father was a very powerful man, Anna. But he couldn't trust many people. Your father was his private accountant. He kept the real books. The ones the police, the FBI, and my uncle’s rivals never saw.”
My mind violently rejected the information. My father was a quiet, boring man who smelled of vanilla pipe tobacco and spent his weekends doing crossword puzzles. He wasn’t involved with the Mafia. He barely even liked watching violent movies.
“You’re crazy,” I said, tears of shock pricking my eyes. “My dad worked for a logistics company.”
“He worked for Romano Shipping,” Nicholas corrected. “And he was loyal to my father until his last breath.”
I shook my head, desperately needing to get away from this table, away from this terrifying man who was dismantling my grief and turning it into something far more dangerous.
“I’m leaving.”
I turned around, intending to march into the kitchen, grab my coat, and never come back to Bellini’s again.
“If you walk out that door alone tonight, you won’t make it to your bus stop,” Nicholas’s voice sliced through the air, stopping me in my tracks.
I slowly turned back to face him. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m warning you,” he said, standing up. He towered over me, a dark shadow blocking out the warm restaurant light. “David didn’t just yell at you because you sat with a customer. He yelled at you because he works for the men who killed your father. And he just realized that I know exactly who you are.”
I glanced toward the kitchen doors. David was standing by the server station, a cell phone pressed tightly to his ear, staring directly at me with a cold, panicked expression.
He wasn’t calling the owner.
He was calling someone else.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, my voice cracking. “After three years?”
“Because I didn’t know you were working here. Until tonight, I thought you were safely hidden away in Chicago.”
Nicholas pulled out a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill and dropped it on the table.
“Your shift is over, Anna. You don’t work for Bellini’s anymore. As of right now, you work for me.”
Before I could protest, Margaret stood up. As she grabbed her small leather handbag, her trembling fingers slipped, and the bag tumbled to the floor.
Lipstick, a compact mirror, a pack of tissues, and several folded papers spilled onto the polished wood.
I instinctively dropped to my knees to help her gather her things.
As I reached for a folded piece of paper, it fell open.
I froze.
It wasn't a document or a bank statement. It was a child’s drawing.
Crayon strokes of a little girl with brown pigtails holding hands with a tall man wearing glasses. In the corner, written in clumsy, childish handwriting, were the words: To Daddy. Love, Anna. Age 7.
I stared at the drawing, my lungs forgetting how to pull in air. I had drawn this for my father twenty years ago. It used to hang on our refrigerator.
I looked up at Margaret, who was looking down at me with profound sadness in her eyes.
“Why do you have this?” I whispered.
May you like
Margaret gently took the drawing from my fingers.
“Because, sweetheart,” she said softly, “when your father realized he wasn't going to make it home that night, he gave this to my husband to keep safe. Along with a very important secret.”
