Part 2 - THE COLD SILVER BRACELET

Roman Moretti did not move.

His large hand remained inches from Greg’s collar, but his dark eyes snapped away from the terrified waiter and locked entirely onto my hands.

Every muscle in his tall frame tensed. He looked at me the way a general looks at an unexpected army appearing on a ridge.

“Where did you learn that?” Roman’s voice cut through the alcove like a shard of ice.

I didn’t turn around. I kept my gaze fixed on Beatatrice, whose fingers were already trembling as she answered me in her own silent tongue.

My son is very angry, Beatatrice signed back to me, her expression a mix of relief and profound exhaustion. He forgets that people are foolish before they are cruel.

I signed back, keeping my movements slow and deliberate.

Cruelty is usually just bad manners with a weapon.

Beatatrice let out a sharp, breathless laugh. She reached across the white tablecloth and gripped my wrist. Her skin felt cool and dry, and her fingers traced the faded white scar across my knuckles where I had burned myself on the industrial dishwasher three months ago.

That was when I noticed the heavy silver bracelet resting against her sleeve.

It was thick, forged in an old Italian design, and embedded with three tiny, deep-blue lapis lazuli stones.

Greg took advantage of Roman’s distraction to scramble backward like a crab, his tray clattering against a service cart as he fled blindly toward the kitchen doors. Paul, the manager, watched him go with a face the color of skim milk, but he didn’t dare step forward.

None of the bodyguards moved either. They were waiting for Roman.

Roman ignored Greg entirely. He took one slow step toward me, towering over my white apron and cheap black shoes.

“You speak sign,” Roman stated. It wasn’t a question.

“My brother was deaf,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low enough that only Roman and Beatatrice could hear.

“Was?” Roman asked.

“He died four years ago.”

Roman studied my face for three agonizing seconds. He wasn’t looking at my uniform or my cheap badge. He was looking for a lie.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Harper Hayes.”

Beatatrice touched Roman’s arm, pulling his attention away from me. She signed rapidly, her expression urgent. Don’t frighten her, Roman. She just stopped a disaster.

Roman’s jaw worked. He looked down at his mother, the hard edges of his face softening in a way that made the dark power surrounding him seem almost human.

“She didn't just stop a disaster,” Roman muttered, looking back at me. “She cost me a waiter.”

“Greg wasn't a waiter,” I said before I could stop myself. “He was an accident waiting to happen.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I froze. An accident waiting to happen. To Roman Moretti, who controlled docks and union bosses, that sounded dangerously close to a challenge.

Instead of anger, a strange, grim twitch touched the corner of Roman’s mouth.

“You have a dangerous tongue for someone who carries ice water, Harper Hayes,” he said softly.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a heavy black leather cardholder. Without opening it, he laid it on the table beside Beatatrice’s water glass.

“Sit down,” Roman commanded.

I blinked. “Sir?”

“Sit down, have a glass of wine, and tell my mother what is actually worth eating in this overpriced restaurant, because the menu is entirely nonsense.”

Beatatrice beamed, signing quickly to me: Please. He has no taste in food; he only eats things that look like leather.

I looked toward the kitchen doors where Paul was peeking out like a frightened mouse. Then I looked at the black cardholder on the table.

I should have walked away. I should have gone back to the dish pit.

Instead, I pulled out the chair across from Roman, right next to Beatatrice, and sat down.

And as I did, Beatatrice’s silver bracelet shifted, catching the dim restaurant light—revealing a microscopic engraving on the inside clasp that made my breath lock in my throat.