Chapter 2 - THE SILVER WATCH
I stood in the center of my narrow kitchen, listening to the hum of our dying refrigerator.
Dr. Kang had let herself out, leaving behind a sterile scent of alcohol wipes that temporarily masked the smell of the damp drywall in the hallway. Dom had retreated to his bedroom, closing the door with the quiet, deliberate click he used when he was embarrassed by his own vulnerability.
Marco Ferraro had not moved from his position in front of my refrigerator.
He was still wearing his overcoat. He had been standing there for ten minutes, examining a cluster of photographs held up by cheap magnetic clips.
"I said I would repay you," I repeated, keeping my voice steady. "The medical bill. Whatever it costs."
Marco finally turned. The kitchen was too small for him. The ceiling felt lower, the walls tighter. It wasn't just his physical size; it was the sheer density of his presence.
"The medical care is a courtesy," he said. "Do not insult me by treating it as a debt."
"I don't accept charity."
"It isn't charity. It is compensation for your employment."
I crossed my arms, suddenly acutely aware of my faded sweater and the scuff marks on my boots. "I lost my job because I spoke out of turn. Not because of you."
"You lost your job because Pierce is a coward who values a congressman's wife over basic human decency," Marco said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection, which somehow made the words carry twice as much weight. "I own Premier Catering. Pierce will be looking for a new career by morning."
I stared at him. The calculation in my head—the four hundred and eighty dollars—suddenly felt incredibly small, replaced by a cold, heavy realization.
He didn't just come here to help.
He had followed me home for a reason.
Marco stepped away from the refrigerator. He pointed a long, gloved finger at a specific photograph tucked behind a magnet shaped like a yellow taxi. It was a picture of my mother, taken twenty years ago. She was sitting on a park bench, holding me as a toddler.
"Your mother," Marco said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Elena."
"She passed away?"
"Seven years ago. Heart failure."
Marco’s dark eyes locked onto mine. "Look at the photograph, Nora."
I frowned, stepping closer. I knew the picture by heart. My mother’s tired smile. Her dark, curling hair. The worn wool coat she had worn every winter until it literally fell apart.
"What about it?" I asked defensively.
"Look at her left hand."
I leaned in. In the photograph, my mother's hand rested on my small shoulder. Dangling from her fingers, catching the sunlight, was a heavy, intricately engraved silver pocket watch.
"It's just an old watch," I said. "She carried it everywhere."
"Where is it now?"
"I don't know," I lied instinctively. The watch was currently sitting in a locked tin box under my bed. My mother had made me swear never to wind it, never to open the back, and never to sell it.
Marco didn't blink. "You are lying to me, Nora."
"I don't have to answer your questions. You need to leave."
From the living room, Giana Ferraro spoke up. She had been sitting quietly on our thrift-store sofa, wrapped in her velvet coat.
"Marco," she said softly. "Don't frighten the girl."
Marco exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his phone. He swiped the screen twice and held it out to me.
"Look at the screen," he ordered gently.
I took the phone. It was a digital scan of an old police report, dated seventeen years ago. Attached to the file was a photograph of a silver pocket watch. It was identical to the one in my mother's picture. The intricate vines etched into the casing, the slight dent near the clasp. It was unmistakable.
"Seventeen years ago," Marco said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "my father was murdered in his study. The police concluded it was a robbery gone wrong, because the safe was emptied. But only one personal item was taken from his body."
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I looked up from the screen, my blood running cold.
"That watch," Marco stepped closer, the air in the kitchen seeming to freeze, "was pulled from my father's bleeding chest. Now, I will ask you one more time. Where is it?"
