Chapter 2 - THE SILVER SWALLOW
“You recognize her?”
The boss’s voice was low, but it cut through the hum of the restaurant like a blade drawn in the dark.
I stared at the mirror behind the bar. The photograph was tucked into the corner of the gilded frame, partially obscured by a bottle of expensive gin. The woman in the picture had my eyes, my jawline, and the exact same way of tilting her chin when she smiled. But the dress she wore was from the late eighties, and the edges of the photo were curled and yellowed with time.
“I… I don’t know who that is,” I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The baby in my arms whimpered, sensing the sudden spike in my pulse. He buried his tiny face into my neck, his small fist tightening in the fabric of my apron. The scent of him—baby lotion and warm milk—was a sharp contrast to the suffocating tension radiating from his father.
The boss stood up. He was at least six-foot-three, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim lighting of the dining room. He didn't look at his bodyguards. He didn't have to. Two of them stepped forward, forming a human wall between our table and the rest of the terrified patrons.
“You don’t know who she is,” he repeated, his dark eyes tracing every line of my face. He wasn't asking a question. He was dissecting a lie he thought I was telling. “Yet she wears your face. And my son, who has screamed every time a stranger has come within ten feet of him for the last three months, is clinging to you like you are his mother.”
Before I could defend myself, my manager, Paul, scurried over. He was sweating right through his cheap suit, a frantic, desperate smile plastered on his face.
“Mr. Russo, I am so sorry,” Paul gasped, practically bowing. “Is this waitress bothering you? Mara, put the boy down immediately. What is wrong with you?”
“She didn’t take him,” Dante Russo—because that had to be who this was, the head of the Russo syndicate—said without looking away from me. “He chose her.”
“She’s clumsy, sir. Just a temp, really. She’s fired. Mara, you’re fired. Hand the child back and get out the back door.” Paul reached for my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.
A collective gasp echoed from the bodyguards.
Dante didn't yell. He didn't even raise his hand. He simply shifted his gaze from me to Paul.
“Take your hand off her,” Dante whispered.
Paul dropped my arm as if my skin had suddenly caught fire. He took three frantic steps backward, nearly knocking over a tray of champagne flutes.
“I didn't mean any disrespect, Mr. Russo. I just know your privacy is—”
“Who put that photograph up?” Dante interrupted, pointing a massive, ink-stained finger at the mirror behind the bar.
Paul swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously. “It… it was in a box in the basement, sir. The previous owners left it. I just thought it added vintage charm to the decor. I put it up this afternoon.”
Dante’s jaw clenched. The scar on his cheek stretched tight, turning white under the amber lights. He looked back at me, his expression unreadable. Then, he looked at his son, who was now peacefully dozing against my collarbone, his breathing slow and steady for the first time all evening.
“Get your coat,” Dante said to me.
I blinked, pulling the baby a fraction closer to my chest. “Excuse me?”
“You don't have a job here anymore,” Dante said, stepping into my personal space. The heat coming off him was intimidating, but underneath the spice and smoke of his cologne, I smelled the sharp, metallic tang of exhaustion. “My son has not slept more than twenty minutes at a time since his mother died. He is sleeping now. You are coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, my voice trembling but stubborn. The rule my mother drilled into my head pounded in my ears. Walk the other way. “I’ll put him back in his stroller. You can hire a professional nanny.”
“I have hired six. He rejects them all.” Dante’s eyes darkened. “I will pay you triple what you make in a month, just to sit in the nursery tonight so he can sleep. One night. In the morning, my driver will take you wherever you want to go.”
I looked at the baby. He looked so fragile, so desperately in need of comfort. I thought of my eviction notice. I thought of the empty, freezing apartment waiting for me.
“One night,” I whispered.
Dante nodded. He reached out to guide me toward the door, his large hand hovering just inches from my lower back without actually touching me. But as I turned, the cheap clasp of my uniform blouse shifted.
The silver chain I wore underneath slipped out, catching the light.
Dante froze.
His hand shot out, his fingers brushing the hollow of my throat as he caught the silver pendant dangling there. It was a tiny, intricately carved swallow in mid-flight.
I gasped, stumbling back, but his grip on the silver chain was iron. He wasn't looking at my face anymore. He was staring at the necklace, all the blood draining from his scarred face.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his voice suddenly raw, stripped of all its previous control.
“Let go of me,” I panicked.
“Where did you get it?!” he roared, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
“My mother gave it to me!” I cried out, holding the baby tighter. “She gave it to me before she died!”
Dante let go of the necklace as if it had burned him. He took a step back, staring at me with a mixture of absolute horror and desperate, agonizing hope.
“That’s impossible,” Dante whispered, his voice cracking. He reached under his own shirt and pulled out a heavy silver chain resting against his chest.
May you like
Dangling from his neck was a silver swallow, identical in every single way, down to the chipped wing on the left side.
“My wife was wearing this when she was murdered,” Dante said, the room spinning around me. “There were only two ever made. She told me the other one belonged to the sister she thought died twenty years ago.”
