Chapter 3 - THE WAITRESS WHO WAS NEVER INVISIBLE
The next morning, my photograph appeared in a file on Adrien Moretti's desk.
I knew because he called me before sunrise.
"Natalya."
His voice sounded unusually serious.
"How did you get my number?" I asked.
"Your employment records."
"That's not comforting."
A brief silence followed.
Then he said, "Fair enough."
I stood beside the window of my tiny Queens apartment.
Rain ran down the glass.
My mother was asleep in the next room.
She had worked a cleaning shift the night before, and I refused to wake her.
"What do you want?"
"Someone used my name to request you at the negotiation."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"I don't know yet."
"You're asking me to believe you?"
"No. I'm telling you what I've discovered."
I swallowed.
Then he continued.
"The Russians left without completing the deal."
I exhaled.
"Good."
"They also left a message."
"What message?"
Adrien paused.
"Tell the Petersburg girl her mother has three days."
My knees weakened.
"What?"
"They know where she lives."
I covered my mouth.
My mother.
Anya Petrov.
The woman who had spent seventeen years working herself to exhaustion so I could finish school.
The woman who still checked the locks every night.
The woman who sometimes woke screaming my father's name.
I whispered, "Why would they threaten her?"
"Because someone believes your family has information they want."
I looked toward her bedroom.
"Then call the police."
"I intend to provide the information."
His answer startled me.
Men like Adrien Moretti didn't usually volunteer to involve police.
He continued.
"Natalya, do you have somewhere safe to stay?"
"Yes."
"Somewhere other than your apartment?"
I didn't answer.
He took a breath.
"I can arrange private security, but I won't send anyone without your permission."
I stared at the phone.
That sounded less like an order than I'd expected.
Still, I wasn't going to trust him simply because he knew how to sound reasonable.
"I'll contact an attorney."
"Good."
"And the police."
"Also good."
I paused.
"Mr. Moretti?"
"Yes?"
"Did you arrange for me to serve those men?"
"No."
"Then why were your initials on the request?"
A long silence followed.
Finally, he said, "Because someone inside my organization wants you to believe I did."
The line disconnected.
I stood frozen.
Then I opened the drawer beside my bed.
Inside was the silver snowflake pendant's original box.
I'd kept it since childhood.
The velvet lining was worn.
The cardboard had softened with age.
But there was something strange beneath the cushion.
A folded piece of paper.
I pulled it free.
Russian handwriting covered one side.
My father's handwriting.
My heart stopped.
At the top was a single sentence.
My little star, if anyone ever asks about the forty-seventh poem, never give them the snowflake.
My hands began shaking.
Then I turned the paper over.
There was a photograph.
My father standing beside a younger man in a dark coat.
I recognized him immediately.
Adrien Moretti.
Seventeen years younger.
May you like
Smiling beside my father.
The man who had just sworn he'd never met Viktor Petrov.
