Chapter 3 - THE FACE IN THE LOCKET
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the edge of my cramped apartment bed, staring at the locket.
Why did the mother of Brooklyn’s most dangerous man have a picture of my deadbeat dad?
The next afternoon, I showed up for my shift exhausted. Whitman was gone, replaced by a nervous assistant manager. The staff whispered as I walked in, but they parted like the red sea.
At exactly 5:00 PM, the front door opened. Vincent Caruso walked in alone.
He bypassed the host stand and walked straight to my section, sliding into a booth. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes heavy.
“Sit with me, Lucy,” he said.
I checked around. “I’m working.”
“I bought the restaurant this morning. You’re on break.”
I sat down across from him. I didn't waste time. I pulled the silver locket from my apron and slid it across the table. “Your mother gave this to me. That’s my father inside. Explain it.”
Vincent looked at the locket, his jaw tight. “I didn't know she gave you that. But I knew who you were the second I saw your name tag last night.”
“My father was a mechanic,” I said, my voice trembling. “He walked out on us when I was eight.”
“He didn't walk out, Lucy,” Vincent said quietly. “He was our driver. And twenty years ago, he took a bullet meant for my mother.”
The room spun. Everything my mother had told me—that he was a coward, a drunk—was a lie?
“He survived,” Vincent continued. “But to keep you and your mother safe from the rival family that shot him, he had to disappear. He left this locket with my mother.”
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Tears pricked my eyes. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because the people who tried to kill my mother back then? They found out your father is still alive.” Vincent slid a thick envelope across the table. “And they know where your mother lives.”
