Chapter 2 - THE WHISPER
The silence in the private dining room was absolute, heavy enough to crush the breath right out of my lungs.
Six pairs of eyes were locked onto me. The soft clinking of ice, the murmur of high-stakes negotiations, the rustle of expensive suits—everything had ceased the moment the rapid, heartbroken Italian tumbled from my lips.
I stood frozen against the silk-lined wall, my phone still clutched in my trembling hand. My grandmother was gone. The only woman who had ever truly loved me, the woman who had taught me the dialect of our tiny Sicilian village, had taken her last breath an ocean away while I was serving scotch to strangers.
I forced myself to swallow the jagged lump in my throat. I was at work. Marco’s warning echoed in my ears: Professional, efficient, invisible.
I had failed at all three.
“Scusa,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I shoved the phone deep into my apron pocket and grabbed my serving tray, keeping my eyes glued to the dark mahogany floorboards. “My apologies, gentlemen.”
I turned to flee, desperate to reach the alley out back where I could finally shatter into a million pieces. But as my hand closed over the brass doorknob, a voice stopped me dead.
“Wait.”
It was him. The headman. His voice was low, commanding, and carried that untraceable accent that sent a shiver down my spine.
I turned slowly. The other five men at the table hadn’t moved a muscle. They were watching him, waiting for his cue.
The man slowly placed his crystal glass of scotch on the table. He didn't look angry. Instead, there was an intense, piercing curiosity in his dark eyes that felt far more dangerous than anger. He leaned toward the man in the black suit standing beside him—the one who had whispered in his ear earlier.
The headman did not take his eyes off me as he spoke softly to his guard. The room was so quiet, I heard every word.
“Find everything about her. Tonight.”
My blood ran cold. The grief over my grandmother was instantly swallowed by a blinding flash of panic. Find everything about her.
Did they know David? Had my ex-boyfriend somehow tracked me to New York and hired these men? David was a wealthy Boston real estate developer, but his connections were dark. That was why I had run in the middle of the night with nothing but a suitcase.
I didn't wait to find out. I yanked the door open, bolted down the hallway, and practically crashed through the swinging doors of the kitchen.
Marco caught me by the arm, his face pale. “Sophia, what did you do? The entire room went dead silent!”
“I quit,” I gasped, tearing at the knot of my apron.
“You what? You can’t quit! It’s the middle of the Friday dinner rush!”
“I have to go, Marco. I’m sorry.” I threw the black apron onto the prep counter, grabbed my coat from the breakroom, and ran out the back door into the freezing January wind.
I didn't take the subway. I walked twelve blocks in the biting cold, constantly checking over my shoulder, terrified I would see a black town car trailing me. I finally reached my cramped Queens apartment, locked the three deadbolts on my door, and slid down the wall, bursting into tears. I cried for my grandmother. I cried for my empty bank account. I cried for the terrifying reality that my fresh start was already ruined.
At 2:00 AM, exhausted and numb, I began packing my single suitcase. I needed to leave New York. I had two hundred dollars to my name, but I couldn't stay here. Not with men like that looking into my past.
I was folding my last sweater when my apartment buzzer rang.
The harsh buzz echoed like a gunshot in the tiny space. I froze. Nobody knew I lived here. I hadn't even given Marco my real address.
It rang again. Two short, sharp bursts.
I crept to the door and pressed my eye to the peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway of my rundown building was the man in the black suit from the restaurant. Behind him stood the headman himself, wearing a long cashmere overcoat, looking entirely out of place against the peeling paint of my floor.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I backed away, reaching for the heavy brass candlestick on my small dining table.
“Sophia,” the headman’s voice came through the thin wood of the door. It wasn't a shout. It was calm and steady. “I know you are packing. You don’t need to run from me.”
I didn't make a sound.
“I know about David Lawson,” he continued, and the sound of my ex-boyfriend's name on his lips made my breath hitch. “I know you fled Boston on July 14th. I know your grandmother, Maria, passed away four hours ago in Palermo.”
I dropped the candlestick. It hit the rug with a dull thud.
“Open the door, Sophia. I am not here to hurt you. I am here to offer you a job.”
Slowly, with trembling hands, I unlocked the deadbolts and opened the door a crack, keeping the chain engaged.
He stood there, his dark eyes meeting mine. “May I come in?”
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“My name is Matteo Ricci,” he said. The owner of Bellissimo. The rumored mafia boss.
Before I could process the shock, Matteo reached into his coat pocket. My breath caught, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulled out an object dangling from a delicate silver chain.
He held it up to the peephole.
May you like
It was a silver rosary with a broken clasp. The exact same rosary my grandmother had worn around her neck every day of her life. The one she swore she had lost twenty years ago.
“Let me in, Sophia,” Matteo said softly. “We have a lot to talk about.”
