Chapter 3 - THE GOLD POCKET WATCH
The chandelier lights seemed to flicker in the heavy silence.
Marco didn’t blink.
He stared at his mother.
“Dad was a chef, Mom. He built this business from nothing. He wasn't a gangster.”
Maria closed her eyes.
“He was a good man, Marco. But forty years ago, the banks wouldn't lend to Italian immigrants. The neighborhood was controlled by people who took what they wanted.”
Richard Hale laughed, a sharp, ugly sound.
“Don’t romanticize him, Maria. Antonio DeLuca was the keeper of the ledger. He handled the money for every corrupt politician and mob boss in New York. And he hid the proof beneath that charming little kitchen.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I looked at Marco.
His face was a mask of cold fury.
He turned to his brother.
“You knew about this, Dominic?”
Dominic swallowed hard.
“Richard found out. He threatened to expose the family. The scandal would destroy the company, Marco! The sale was the only way to bury it.”
“By handing the most powerful blackmail material in the city directly to him?” Marco asked, his voice deadly quiet.
Dominic took a step back.
“I didn't have a choice! He has something else. Something worse.”
Serena wiped her fake tears, her posture suddenly rigid.
“It’s over, Marco. The contract is signed. The deed to the Brooklyn property transfers at midnight tonight. My husband and I will take it from here.”
Marco picked up his steak knife.
He didn't raise it. He simply held it.
“No one is taking my father’s restaurant.”
Richard adjusted his expensive suit.
“You’re a cook in a tailored suit, Marco. You aren't equipped for this kind of war. Dominic understood that. That’s why he gave me the collateral.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed.
“What collateral?”
Richard looked at Dominic.
Dominic trembled, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out an old, heavy gold pocket watch.
The moment I saw it, the breath left my lungs.
It was tarnished, with a distinctive dent on the top hinge.
Marco recognized it immediately.
“That was Dad’s watch,” Marco said, his voice cracking for the first time. “You gave our father’s watch to this parasite?”
“He made me,” Dominic whispered, placing it on the table.
Richard smiled.
“It isn't the watch that matters, Marco. It’s what’s inside it.”
Richard reached over, snapped the watch open, and pulled out a tiny, folded piece of paper tucked behind the clock face.
He unfolded it and held it up.
It was a bank routing number.
“Antonio didn't just keep the ledger,” Richard said smoothly. “He skimmed from the bosses. Millions of dollars, funneled into an offshore account. And this number proves it.”
Maria gasped, clutching her chest.
“No. Antonio would never steal. He hated them.”
“The proof is right here,” Richard sneered. “If you fight the sale, I leak the routing number to the families Antonio stole from. They’ll dismantle your restaurants brick by brick. And they’ll start with you, Maria.”
Marco slammed the knife into the oak table.
The blade buried itself deep into the wood.
The two attorneys flinched.
“Get out of my house,” Marco said softly.
Serena scoffed. “Darling, you’re emotional—”
“I said get out.” Marco’s eyes were dead. “Before I remember what my father’s name used to mean in this city.”
Richard smirked, grabbing Serena’s arm.
“Midnight, Marco. Enjoy your final hours as a CEO.”
They turned and walked out, the attorneys scurrying behind them.
Dominic stood frozen, staring at the pocket watch left on the table.
“Marco,” Dominic pleaded. “I was trying to save us.”
“You are no longer my brother,” Marco said without looking at him.
Dominic flinched as if struck. He turned and fled the room.
The dining room was empty, save for Marco, Maria, and me.
Marco slowly pulled the knife from the table. His hands were shaking.
Maria wept silently into the red recipe book.
I couldn't move.
Because I couldn't stop looking at the gold pocket watch sitting on the white tablecloth.
I stepped forward, my hands trembling.
“Lily?” Marco asked, noticing my pale face.
I picked up the watch.
I traced my thumb over the dent on the top hinge.
“This isn't your father’s watch,” I whispered.
Marco frowned. “What are you talking about? I’ve seen him wear it a thousand times.”
I turned it over, pressing a tiny, hidden latch near the winding stem.
The back casing popped open.
Inside, engraved into the gold, was a name.
Not Antonio DeLuca.
“It says William Carter,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision.
Marco stepped closer. “Who is William Carter?”
May you like
I looked up at him, my heart breaking.
“He’s my father.”
