Chapter 3 - The Butcher’s Interrogation
The manager of Il Destino, a man named Salvatore whose face had turned the color of spoiled milk, practically sprinted over, sweating profusely.
“Mr. Moretti, please, I am so sorry, she’s just a temporary waitress, we’ll fire her immediately, we’ll clean up the mess—!”
“Shut up, Salvatore,” Rico snapped without looking at him. His eyes remained fixed on Clara as she carefully lifted Leo—who was now half-asleep, clutching a fold of her apron in his fist—and slid into the spacious leather booth right across from the mafia boss.
Salvatore scurried away like a frightened mouse, leaving Clara trapped at the epicenter of the most dangerous table in the city.
The bodyguards stepped back slightly, but their hands remained near their weapons. Up close, Rico Moretti was imposing—tall, impeccably tailored, with slicked-back dark hair, sharp aristocratic features, and an aura of cold, lethal authority that felt almost radioactive.
“You mentioned smell,” Rico said quietly, leaning forward across the table, resting his forearms on the white linen. “What did you mean by that?”
Clara swallowed hard, keeping her voice even. “My little brother passed away three years ago, Mr. Moretti. Before he got sick, our mother used to make him warm milk with a single cube of sugar and a drop of vanilla extract right before bed. It leaves a distinct scent on your skin. When I walked past your table, I smelled it on the boy’s collar. Whoever took care of him before… they used the same recipe.”
Rico went completely still.
The vanilla extract. The single cube of sugar. It was a secret recipe that only one person in the world had known—Elena, his late wife, who had used it every single night to soothe Leo before she disappeared into the violent undercurrents of the Brooklyn harbor.
Rico’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, complicated mix of grief and suspicion. “Who told you about Elena?”
“I didn't know who Elena was,” Clara answered honestly, meeting his gaze without blinking. “I just saw a little boy drowning in a room full of people who were terrified of him. Everyone in this room looked at him like he was a monster or a nuisance. I looked at him and saw a child who lost his anchor.”
Rico stared at her, searching her face for deception, for a hidden wire, for any sign that she was an operative planted by a rival family. But all he found in her tired, dirt-smudged eyes was raw, unadulterated truth.
“You have a lot of courage, waitress,” Rico said slowly, his voice laced with grim irony. “Or a profound lack of survival instinct. Most people in Brooklyn cross the street when they see me coming. You walk right up to my table and lecture me on parenting.”
“I didn't lecture you, Mr. Moretti,” Clara replied quietly, glancing down at Leo, whose breathing had grown deep and even against her shoulder. “I just did what any human being should have done.”
Rico didn't answer. He reached out, his large, calloused hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and brokered underworld treaties—hovering hesitantly over Leo’s small head. For a moment, his fingers gently brushed against his son’s dark curls. It was a fleeting, tender gesture that vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced once again by the mask of the Butcher of Brooklyn.
He pulled a thick, black leather wallet from his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills that looked thick enough to choke a horse, and dropped them onto the table.
“That covers your shift,” Rico said coldly. “And your silence about what happened here tonight.”
Clara looked at the money, then up at Rico. She didn't touch it.
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“Keep your money, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said, gently sliding Leo off her shoulder and placing him down against the plush cushions of the booth, where he immediately curled up, still holding onto her apron string. She carefully unhooked the fabric, stood up, and looked down at the most feared man in New York. “Some things aren't for sale.”
With that, she turned around and walked away toward the staff exit, leaving the mafia boss sitting in absolute silence.
