Chapter 2 - THE MANAGER'S MISTAKE
The dining room went completely dead.
No clinking glasses. No murmured conversations. Everyone was watching Whitman.
My manager’s face drained of color. He looked from Vincent Caruso back down to Eleanor, his arrogance evaporating into pure terror.
“Mr. Caruso, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Whitman stammered, his voice suddenly an octave higher. “I never meant—”
“I didn't ask what you meant,” Vincent’s voice was dangerously quiet. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. “I asked what you said.”
Eleanor squeezed my hand. Her fingers were warm now, steady. She wasn't just an elderly woman with a broken hearing aid anymore. She was the mother of a king, and she knew exactly what she was doing.
“He said,” Eleanor spoke up, her voice clear in the silent room, “that I was taking up space. He called me a ‘deaf old bat’ under his breath when he thought I couldn't read his lips.”
Vincent closed his eyes again. When they opened, they were devoid of any warmth.
“You’re done,” Vincent told Whitman.
“Sir, please, I own a percentage of this restaurant—”
“Not anymore. You’ll sell your shares to my holding company by morning. If I ever see you in Brooklyn again, we will have a much different conversation.”
Whitman didn't argue. He practically ran toward the back office.
Vincent turned to me. The harshness in his face melted away, leaving a tired, grateful son. “Lucy. Thank you for staying with her.”
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a thick money clip, but Eleanor put her hand over his.
“No, Vincent. Money isn't how we thank someone who gives us their time.” She reached into her small velvet purse and pulled out a tarnished silver locket. She pressed it into my palm. “Keep this safe for me, dear.”
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I tried to refuse, but she wouldn't let me. As Vincent escorted her out, I opened the locket. My heart stopped.
Inside wasn't a picture of Vincent. It was a faded photograph of my own father—the man who had abandoned my mother and me twenty years ago.
