Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH OF MY MOTHER
My mother had been dead for twelve years.
At least that part of my life had always seemed simple.
Her name was Elena Bell.
She worked nights at a nursing home, raised me alone, and refused to discuss my father beyond one sentence:
“He chose another life.”
Now I was staring at a photograph of her standing between two men tied to the Rossi family.
Salvatore turned it over.
Nothing.
Gabriel looked at me.
“Do you recognize where this was taken?”
“No.”
Salvatore did.
“Palermo.”
I laughed once.
“My mother told me she'd never been to Italy.”
“She lied.”
The word hurt more than it should have.
Salvatore ordered the restaurant locked down.
Police were not called.
Of course they weren't.
Richard, my manager, whispered that I could go home.
Gabriel said, “No.”
I turned.
“Excuse me?”
“Someone threw that photograph because you were here.”
“And that means I should stay with people who apparently knew my mother?”
“It means whoever sent it knows who you are.”
“I don't even know who I am anymore.”
Salvatore slowly stood.
“You are Elena's daughter.”
“Yes.”
He looked at my face as though searching for someone else.
Then he asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
Another reaction.
Small.
But there.
Gabriel noticed.
“What?”
Salvatore ignored him.
“Antonio gave you a key.”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Safe place.”
“Bring it to me.”
“No.”
Gabriel actually looked impressed.
Salvatore looked offended.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes. That's why I said no.”
For the first time, the old man's mouth twitched.
Almost amusement.
Then he became serious.
“Antonio trusted you?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust his choice. Not me.”
That answer surprised me.
I agreed to retrieve the key only if Gabriel came alone.
No guards inside my apartment.
No searching.
No taking anything without permission.
Salvatore called me impossible in dialect.
I told him he'd survive.
An hour later, Gabriel stood in my tiny Queens apartment while I opened a kitchen drawer and removed a tin box.
Inside were Mr. Cosenza's rosary.
A photograph of us.
And the brass key.
Stamped on one side:
On the other:
SAN GIACOMO.
Gabriel stared.
“That isn't a bank.”
“What is it?”
“A church.”
“Here?”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“In Sicily.”
Then I found something beneath the felt lining I'd never noticed.
A folded note.
My name was written across it.
Tessa.
Inside, Mr. Cosenza had written only two sentences:
May you like
Your mother came to me because she was afraid of Salvatore Rossi.
But Salvatore was not the man she was running from.
