Chapter 2 - The Waitress Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist
I had been called many things in my life.
Poor.
Stubborn.
Too independent for my own good.
But nobody had ever called me a Moretti.
Not until the night Antonio Russo returned to Bellarosa after closing.
I was wiping down the tables when the front door opened.
Marco immediately straightened.
"Mr. Russo. We weren't expecting you."
Antonio ignored him.
His eyes found me.
"Sophie, may I speak with you?"
My stomach tightened.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
He glanced toward Marco.
"Privately, if you're comfortable."
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
We sat at a small table near the window.
Outside, rain moved through the Brooklyn streets.
Antonio placed a photograph between us.
A younger man stood beside a woman holding a baby.
I recognized the man instantly.
"Dad?"
Antonio watched me.
"That's Daniel Bennett?"
I nodded.
"And that's my mother, Claire."
His expression shifted.
"Your mother was Claire Moretti?"
My heart stopped.
"What?"
Antonio leaned forward.
"Sophie, did your mother ever tell you about her family?"
I laughed nervously.
"She said they weren't good people."
"Did she explain why?"
"No."
My mother died when I was eighteen.
Before that, she'd spent years warning me never to trust wealthy men who asked too many questions.
I always assumed she meant people like Antonio Russo.
He studied the photograph.
"Your mother was the younger sister of Vincent Moretti."
The name meant nothing to me.
Then Antonio added:
"Vincent was one of the most powerful organized crime figures in New York."
My mouth went dry.
"You're joking."
"I wish I were."
I stood.
"No. My parents were ordinary people."
Antonio didn't move.
"Your father worked as an accountant for the Moretti family's legitimate businesses before becoming involved in an investigation."
I shook my head.
"That's impossible."
He looked at me quietly.
"Then why did your parents change their names?"
I had no answer.
Because suddenly, I remembered something.
When I was twelve, Dad received a phone call during dinner.
He went pale.
That night, we packed our belongings and moved across the state.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
I sat down slowly.
Antonio's voice softened.
"Your father may have been protecting you."
I stared at the photograph.
"From whom?"
He hesitated.
Then said the name.
"Your uncle."
My blood turned cold.
Before I could ask another question, Antonio's phone vibrated.
He read the message.
His expression changed.
"What is it?" I whispered.
He looked toward the dark restaurant windows.
"Someone just sent me a photograph of you leaving your apartment this morning."
My heart pounded.
"Who?"
Antonio's voice became dangerously quiet.
"The message came from Vincent Moretti's old phone number."
Then he turned the screen toward me.
May you like
Beneath the photograph were six words.
Tell Sophie her father is alive.
