Chapter 2 - THE WRONG MEDICINE
“What mistake?” Antonio’s voice didn’t rise, yet it seemed to echo off the walls of the silent restaurant.
He didn’t look at his mother. His dark eyes remained fixed on the small plastic pill organizer resting inches from my hand.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I was a waitress with eleven dollars to my name, standing in front of a man who could make people disappear. But my nursing instincts overrode my fear.
“The blue pill,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Your mother said she takes three pills at night. But the blue one in the Tuesday slot isn’t her blood pressure medication.”
Antonio took a slow step forward. “Explain.”
“I used to sort these exact medications at the clinic,” I said, pointing to the tiny oval tablet. “Her usual pill is scored down the middle. This one is smooth. It’s a heavy blood thinner. Combined with her other heart medication, if she had taken it and gone to sleep…”
I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t have to.
Maria’s hand trembled as she looked down at the plastic box. “But… I don’t take blood thinners.”
“I know,” I said softly.
Antonio didn’t shout. He didn’t flip the table. That made it infinitely more terrifying. He simply reached out and picked up the blue pill between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at it for a long, suffocating moment.
“Mother,” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. “Who filled your organizer this week?”
“I always do it myself,” Maria whispered, her pearl earrings shaking. “On Sunday mornings. I leave it on the kitchen counter.”
“Did anyone visit the house on Sunday?”
Maria hesitated. “Only family. And Marco, of course. He brought the weekly grocery delivery from the restaurant.”
Marco. The head waiter. The man who had rushed past me earlier, irritated that I wasn’t serving bread fast enough.
Antonio’s gaze snapped up to the front of the restaurant. He gestured to the two massive men in dark suits standing by the door. “Lock the doors. No one leaves. Bring me the head waiter.”
Panic erupted in the dining room as the deadbolts clicked shut. Diners murmured in fear. I took a step back, suddenly desperate to escape to the kitchen, to clock out, to pretend I had never looked inside that beaded purse.
“You,” Antonio said, turning his piercing gaze back to me. “Stay exactly where you are.”
“I have to finish my shift,” I stammered.
“Your shift is over, Sophie.”
One of the suited men returned from the kitchen. He looked pale. “Mr. Russo. The waiter, Marco… he’s gone. Slipped out the alley door five minutes ago.”
Antonio’s jaw clenched. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and spoke three words. “Find Marco. Alive.”
He hung up and looked at his mother, his expression softening just a fraction. “We are leaving. Now.”
Maria stood, leaning heavily on her cane. “Antonio, please. The girl did nothing wrong.”
“She knows too much,” Antonio said flatly.
He reached into his tailored jacket and pulled something out, dropping it onto the pristine white tablecloth. It landed with a heavy, metallic clink.
I gasped.
It was a silver pocket watch, heavily dented on one side, with a faded monogram on the front. V.R.
“Marco didn’t just run,” Antonio said, his eyes burning into mine. “He left this in the kitchen. On your locker, Sophie.”
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I stared at the watch, the blood draining from my face. “I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
“Then why,” Antonio stepped so close I could smell his expensive cedar cologne, “does my dead father’s watch have your name etched into the back of it?”
