Chapter 2 - THE BURNT BRACELET
“You’re coming with me,” Rico said. “My son won’t sleep tonight unless you’re in the house. Name your price.”
“Excuse me?” Clara asked.
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t break eye contact. The chandelier light caught the silver threading in Rico’s suit, illuminating a man who had never been told no.
“A thousand dollars for the night,” Rico said, his tone flat, businesslike. “Two thousand. Whatever covers your rent and buys your silence. My driver is waiting out back.”
Behind Rico, the restaurant manager finally found his courage. “Mr. Moretti, please. Clara is just a waitress. She has tables to clear. You can’t just—”
Rico didn’t even turn his head. He merely shifted his icy gaze to the manager. The man swallowed his words, taking a physical step backward into the swinging kitchen doors.
Clara looked down at the child in her arms. Leo’s eyes were drooping, his small hands still clutching her frayed apron as if it were a life raft. He smelled like vanilla and exhausted tears. If she put him down now, the screaming would start again. And Clara, who had grown up in foster homes where tears were treated as an inconvenience, couldn’t bear to abandon him to a cold, marble house.
“I don’t want your money, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said softly. She stood up, her cheap flats sliding slightly on the buttery risotto, keeping Leo securely against her chest. “But I’ll come. Because he asked me to.”
Rico’s jaw hardened. He didn’t like being refused, and he liked charity even less. But he nodded once, leading the way out the service doors to avoid the staring patrons.
Ten minutes later, Clara sat in the back of a bulletproof black SUV. The leather seats smelled of rich cologne and tension. Rico sat across from them, staring out the tinted window at the passing Brooklyn streets. He hadn’t spoken a word since the restaurant.
When they arrived at the Moretti estate in Dyker Heights, it wasn’t a home. It was a fortress. High iron gates, stone walls, and men in dark coats standing under the security lights.
Clara carried the sleeping boy up the sweeping mahogany staircase. Rico guided her to Leo’s bedroom—a massive space painted in soft blues, filled with untouched, expensive toys. It looked like a museum exhibit of a happy childhood.
She laid Leo gently into his toddler bed, pulling a heavy cashmere blanket over him. He murmured but didn’t wake.
“He’s asleep,” Clara whispered, turning around.
Rico stood in the doorway, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read. “Thank you. The guest suite is down the hall. I’ll have my men drive you home in the morning.”
He turned to leave.
“Mr. Moretti,” Clara said. She stepped away from the bed, her shoe kicking something beneath a pile of wooden blocks. It made a metallic clink.
She bent down and picked it up.
It was a silver charm bracelet. It was heavy, expensive, but the metal was warped. Half of the charms were melted together. It smelled faintly, terribly, of old smoke and scorched gasoline.
“I think he dropped this,” Clara said, holding it out.
Rico turned back. The moment his eyes landed on the silver chain, the color drained entirely from his face. The intimidating mob boss vanished, replaced by a man looking at a ghost.
He crossed the room in two strides, snatching the bracelet from her hand. His fingers traced the melted silver star charm.
“Where did you find this?” Rico’s voice was a dangerous whisper.
“Under his blocks. It was just lying there.”
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Rico looked at the sleeping boy, then back at Clara. The air in the room turned ice-cold.
“That’s impossible,” Rico breathed, his eyes narrowing into sharp, terrifying slits. “My wife wasn't wearing this when she died. She gave this to her sister three years ago.”
