Chapter 1 - THE SON WHO CAME BACK FOR HER
The young man stopped just inside the diner.
Same dark eyes.
Same straight nose.
Same stillness that made everyone around him seem louder than they were.
But where Vincent Moretti looked like a man who had spent forty years teaching fear to obey him, his son looked exhausted.
Maybe twenty-eight.
Thirty at most.
Dark wool coat.
No bodyguards.
No smile.
He looked at the broken ceramic on the floor.
Then at the coffee streaking down the wall.
Then at me.
“You’re Emily?”
Dana’s hand tightened around my arm.
I pulled free.
“Yes.”
The young man exhaled.
“My father said you threatened to end him.”
“I told him to stop shouting.”
“That isn’t the version he gave me.”
“Then your father edits aggressively.”
Reuben made a choking sound behind the grill.
The young man looked at the hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
“He paid?”
“For the cup.”
“That’s new.”
I folded my arms.
“Are you here to finish the argument?”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
The black SUVs were already gone.
Then he lowered his voice.
“I’m here because whatever my father was doing here, it wasn’t about coffee.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
He reached inside his coat.
Dana flinched again.
This time I almost laughed.
Apparently Moretti men had a talent for making pockets look dangerous.
He pulled out a photograph.
My mother.
I stopped breathing.
She was sitting in a hospital wheelchair.
Oxygen tubing beneath her nose.
The photograph had been taken from across a parking lot.
Three days earlier.
“Where did you get that?”
The young man looked at me.
“My name is Luca Moretti.”
Vincent’s son.
He placed the picture on the counter.
“My father has been asking questions about your mother.”
My body went cold.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I agree.”
Something in his tone made me believe him.
“Did he follow her?”
“Someone did.”
“Your people?”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
“I’m trying to find out.”
I grabbed the photograph.
“Why would a billionaire mafia boss care about a woman dying of lung disease?”
Luca’s expression changed.
“That’s exactly what I asked.”
“And?”
“My father told me to stay out of it.”
“So you came here.”
“Yes.”
I almost respected that.
Almost.
Then Luca looked at the diner door.
“My father never throws things without a reason.”
I stared.
“He threw a cup at my head because the coffee tasted burned.”
“No.”
Luca shook his head.
“My father loses his temper. But not randomly.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
He looked at the broken pieces.
“I think he wanted to see how you reacted.”
My stomach turned.
“A test?”
“Maybe.”
“For what?”
Luca reached into his coat again.
This time, he pulled out an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
EMILY CARTER.
I stared.
“Who gave you that?”
“My father.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes before he came into this diner.”
I took the envelope.
Inside was a medical bill.
My mother’s.
One I had never seen.
Balance:
$0.00
Paid in full.
The payment date was two years earlier.
The same month I sold my father’s truck because I thought we still owed forty-eight thousand dollars.
My hands started shaking.
“That’s impossible.”
Luca looked at me.
“Your mother’s bills were paid.”
“No.”
“I checked.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at the statement.
For two years, I had worked double shifts.
Canceled insurance.
Skipped dental care.
Sold everything.
Why?
Who had been sending collection notices?
Then Luca said:
“The payment came from Moretti Family Holdings.”
I looked up.
“My father paid for your mother’s treatment.”
The diner seemed to tilt.
“Why?”
Luca’s face hardened.
“That’s the question he refused to answer.”
Then the bell above the door rang again.
This time Vincent Moretti stood there.
Alone.
He looked at the envelope in my hand.
Then at his son.
May you like
And said:
“Luca, I told you never to show her that.”
