Chapter 4 - The Watch in the Flour
I stared at the torn photograph in my hand.
Marco was the baby. Marco was my mother’s son.
He wasn't just a kitchen assistant who had panicked. He was my brother.
The room spun. I grabbed the edge of Table Twelve to steady myself. Matteo immediately noticed. He stepped closer, his dark eyes instantly assessing the change in me.
"What did he give you?" Matteo demanded quietly.
I couldn't speak. I just handed him the torn piece of the photograph.
Matteo lined it up with the first half still resting on the table. The image was complete. My mother, young and terrified, holding a newborn boy with a distinct, star-shaped birthmark on his neck.
Matteo stared at the image. "Marco."
"He's my brother," I whispered, tears suddenly burning my eyes. "She hid him right in front of me. We worked in the same kitchen for a year, and I never knew."
Domenico leaned over the table, inspecting the photo. He chuckled, a dark, terrible sound. "Well. It seems Isabella was busy hiding multiple secrets. But it doesn't change the fact that Marco just tried to kill the head of the De Luca family."
"Marco didn't poison the dish," I snapped, a sudden, fierce protectiveness flaring in my chest.
"He ran," Domenico countered. "He ran out the back door the second Matteo questioned the plate."
"He didn't run," Matteo said softly, looking toward the kitchen doors. "He was dragged."
Matteo walked past Domenico, pushing through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I followed him, my heart in my throat. Luca and two other men trailed closely behind us.
The kitchen was a mess. Pots were still boiling on the stoves, the air thick with the smell of garlic and burnt butter. But near the back exit, the metal prep tables had been shoved aside. There were scuff marks on the tile floor.
Answer One, Open Two. Marco hadn't fled because he was guilty. He had been attacked because he saw who actually tampered with the food.
Matteo walked over to the massive, stainless-steel flour bin in the corner. The lid was slightly askew. White handprints smeared the metal sides.
"Open it," Matteo told Luca.
Luca lifted the heavy lid. He reached into the deep mound of white flour and pulled out a small, heavy object. He brushed the powder away and handed it to Matteo.
It was a heavy gold pocket watch.
The glass face was shattered.
Matteo stared at the watch, the color completely leaving his face. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost.
"That's not possible," Matteo breathed.
"What is it?" I asked, stepping closer.
Matteo turned the watch over. Engraved on the gold casing were three letters.
M.D.L.
Massimo De Luca.
"This is my father's watch," Matteo said, his voice trembling with a terrifying rage. "He was wearing this the night he died. It went missing before the police arrived. I haven't seen it in twenty-six years."
I looked at the watch, and a memory hit me so hard I stumbled back.
I had seen that watch.
Not twenty-six years ago. Ten years ago.
When I was fifteen, a man had come to our apartment in Cicero. My mother had locked me in the bedroom, but I had peeked through the keyhole. The man was yelling. He had slammed his fist on the kitchen table, demanding something from my mother.
On his wrist, dangling by a broken gold chain, was that exact watch.
"I know who put that in the flour," I said, my voice shaking.
Matteo whipped his head toward me. "Who?"
"The man who came to my house ten years ago," I said. "My mother called him Leo."
Domenico appeared in the kitchen doorway, his silver cane tapping against the tile. "Leo Moretti has been dead for a decade, sweetheart. He died in a car crash three days after he supposedly visited your apartment."
My chest heaved. "I know what I saw."
"And I know what I know," Domenico said coldly. He looked at Matteo. "Your waitress is lying, Matteo. She and her brother orchestrated this to finish what their mother started." Domenico looked at his men in the dining room. "Take her."
Two men stepped forward.
May you like
Before they could reach me, Matteo drew his weapon and aimed it directly at his own brother's chest.
"Nobody touches her," Matteo roared, the sound echoing off the stainless steel walls. "Because the scratches on the plate tonight didn't stand for Matteo De Luca. They stood for Massimo."
