Chapter 3 - THE TICKET STUB
The silence in the south alcove had shifted from hostile to heavy.
Roman didn’t order wine. He ordered a bottle of sparkling water and two plates of whatever Chef Thomas prepared first, making it clear to the kitchen that the menu was now a suggestion rather than a rule.
Beatatrice kept her hand resting lightly over mine on the white linen tablecloth. Her thumb brushed my knuckles, tracing the old burn scar again.
You have hands like a worker, she signed, her dark eyes filled with an intuitive, piercing warmth. But your shoulders are tired.
“I work two jobs,” I signed back slowly, my fingers slightly stiff from lack of practice. The restaurant is the easy one.
Roman watched our hands move. He didn’t know the full vocabulary, but he understood enough to catch the rhythm of it. His dark gaze drifted from my fingers to the silver bracelet on his mother’s wrist.
“Where did you get that bracelet?” I asked, looking directly at Beatatrice.
Roman stiffened. His hand paused inches from his water glass.
Beatatrice touched the lapis lazuli stones, her expression turning distant. She didn’t sign immediately. She looked at her son, as if asking for permission.
Roman gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Beatatrice turned her wrist so the inside clasp faced me. A gift, she signed. Thirty years ago. From a man who knew how to listen in a room full of shouting men.
“My father had a watch with that exact mark,” I whispered.
The air in the alcove cooled instantly.
Roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made every hair on my arms stand up.
“Your father?” Roman asked, his voice flat. “What was his name?”
“Arthur Hayes,” I said. “He died when I was twelve. He worked the South Branch docks before the shipping terminals were consolidated.”
Roman didn’t look surprised. He looked like a man whose suspicions had just been brutally confirmed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of yellowed paper—an old ticket stub with faded red ink.
He slid it across the table toward me.
I looked down at it.
It was a passenger stub for the Chicago-to-Milwaukee railway. Date: October 14, 1992.
Written on the back in my father’s messy, hurried handwriting were four numbers: 412-B.
“Do you know what that is?” Roman asked quietly.
“No,” I said, my chest tightening. “Where did you find this?”
“In my father’s safe,” Roman said. “Along with a ledger that disappeared the night your father’s partner’s car went off the bridge.”
Before I could process the words, a shadow fell across our table.
Chef Thomas himself emerged from the kitchen, wearing a pristine white jacket and holding a silver tray with a look of frantic, sweating desperation.
“Mr. Moretti,” the chef stammered, his eyes darting from Roman to me sitting at the VIP table in a busser’s uniform. “I—we sincerely apologize for the earlier incident. The waiter has been terminated. The meal is on the house. And... well, Paul said I should bring this out personally.”
On the silver tray sat a plate of delicate seared scallops and a sealed white envelope stamped with the restaurant’s gold crest.
Roman didn’t look at the food. He took the envelope, tore it open with his thumb, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy bond paper.
He read the first two lines.
Then his face drained of every trace of color, and his hand crumpled the paper into a tight ball.
“It’s not from the chef,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a terrifying whisper. “It’s from Marcus Vance.”
Beatatrice went rigid. She grabbed Roman’s sleeve, her lips parting in silent horror.
I stared at Roman, my mind racing back to the faded ticket stub on the table.
“Who is Marcus Vance?” I asked.
May you like
Roman stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the mahogany floor.
“He’s the federal agent who helped my father cover up the murder of your father,” Roman said, his eyes burning into mine. “And he just found out you’re working in my restaurant.”
