Chapter 3 - The Price of a Name
“No.”
That was my answer.
Not whispered.
Not politely offered.
Just no.
Rico stared across the lounge.
“Clara, this man might know who murdered my wife.”
“And I'm sorry about that. But I don't interrogate criminals.”
Dante cleared his throat.
“Technically, we don't know whether he's—”
“Dante.”
The bodyguard shut up.
Rico's expression tightened.
“I can protect you.”
“You couldn't protect your wife.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Dante looked horrified.
Rico went absolutely still.
I wished I could pull the sentence back.
Not because it wasn't relevant.
Because I'd seen how deeply it hurt him.
“I'm sorry,” I said quietly.
Rico looked toward Leo.
The child had finally fallen asleep, curled against my chest.
“No,” Rico said after a moment. “You're right.”
That surprised me.
He took a slow breath.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Why did you walk toward my table tonight?”
I glanced at Leo.
“Because nobody was listening to him.”
“You weren't afraid?”
“I was terrified.”
Rico studied me.
“Then why?”
I swallowed.
“When I was little, I used to have panic attacks after my father died.”
The confession surprised even me.
“I couldn't explain what was happening. Adults kept telling me to stop crying, stop making scenes, stop embarrassing my mother.”
I adjusted Leo's blanket.
“One day, a school nurse sat beside me and said I didn't have to stop crying. She just stayed until I could breathe.”
Rico said nothing.
“I never forgot that.”
He looked at his sleeping son.
“What's your mother's name?”
“Rose.”
“Where is she?”
“In Queens.”
“Is she well?”
I hesitated.
“She has multiple sclerosis.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Does she need treatment?”
“She has treatment.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
I stared at him.
“And I didn't ask for your money.”
For the first time, something almost like respect crossed his face.
Dante's phone vibrated.
He read a message.
His expression changed.
“Boss. The man has information about Elena's last phone call.”
Rico looked up.
I felt a strange tightening in my stomach.
“What kind of information?”
Dante studied his screen.
“He says she called someone twelve minutes before she was killed.”
“Who?” Rico demanded.
Dante looked at me.
I frowned.
“What?”
“He says the number belonged to a woman named Rose Vance.”
The room became very quiet.
I shook my head.
“That's impossible.”
Rico's eyes locked onto mine.
“Your mother?”
“She never met Elena Moretti.”
Dante held out the phone.
There was a screenshot of an old call record.
Elena Moretti.
Rose Vance.
A call lasting four minutes and seventeen seconds.
Six months ago.
At 8:46 p.m.
Twelve minutes before the shooting.
I stared at the screen.
My mother's number was correct.
Every digit.
Rico stepped closer.
“You said your mother never met my wife.”
“She didn't.”
“Then explain that.”
“I can't.”
He looked toward the door.
“Get the man.”
Dante disappeared.
My hands started shaking.
Leo stirred.
I forced myself to breathe slowly so I wouldn't wake him.
Rico noticed.
He lowered his voice.
“I'm not accusing you of anything.”
“Then stop looking at me like I brought a gun into your restaurant.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“You're right.”
The door opened.
Two bodyguards escorted Frank Bell inside.
There was a bruise beneath his left eye.
His hands were restrained in front of him.
The moment he saw me, he stopped.
“Clara Vance?”
I held Leo tighter.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want me?”
Frank glanced at Rico.
“Because Elena knew someone inside this family was going to betray her.”
Rico took a step forward.
“Who?”
Frank ignored him.
His eyes stayed on me.
“She wanted your mother to keep something safe.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
Frank swallowed.
“A recording.”
Rico's voice cracked through the room.
“Where is it?”
Frank gave a humorless laugh.
“If I knew, you think I'd still be alive?”
Dante moved forward.
But Frank suddenly looked past him, toward the lounge entrance.
His entire face changed.
Fear.
Pure fear.
“Don't let him in,” Frank whispered.
I turned.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Expensive dark suit.
He smiled warmly.
“Rico,” he said. “I heard there was trouble.”
Rico looked stunned.
“Uncle Vincent?”
Frank began struggling against the guards.
“No!”
Vincent Moretti looked at Leo in my arms.
Then at me.
May you like
And his smile disappeared.
“Who,” he asked softly, “is holding my nephew?”
