Chapter 2 - The Summons
midnight arrived like a executioner’s axe.
I spent three hours wiping down tables in the back dining room while the rest of the staff stared at me as if I were a ghost walking through walls. Nobody spoke to me. Nobody offered to help me carry trays. Even the dishwasher, a quiet man named Hector who usually shared his shift cigarettes with me by the dumpster, avoided my eyes when I walked past.
In Manhattan’s underground economy, fear was contagious. And I had just been tagged by the worst virus in the five boroughs.
At 11:58 PM, Anthony Moretti met me near the employee lockers. He held a brown paper envelope containing three hundred dollars in cash—my wages for two weeks plus my tips.
“Take it,” Anthony said, his voice flat, refusing to look at me. “Don't bother turning in the apron. Don't come back tomorrow. Don't call.”
“Anthony, I’ve worked here for two years—”
“And you were a great waitress, Clara,” he interrupted, his hands shaking as he adjusted his bow tie. “But now you’re a liability. Men like Salvo Romano don't take waitresses to private cars to offer them promotions. If you’re smart, you’ll take that cash and buy a bus ticket to Ohio.”
“I can’t go to Ohio,” I said softly, clutching the envelope to my chest. “My mother’s records are here. Her case file is still open.”
“Your mother is gone, Clara!” Anthony hissed, leaning in close. “And if you step into that black SUV outside, you’re going to follow her!”
I didn't answer him. I grabbed my faded coat, slung my worn leather purse over my shoulder, and walked out the kitchen doors into the cold damp alley behind The Cathedral.
A black Cadillac Escalade sat idling near the alley entrance, its exhaust rising in white plumes against the neon rain.
The rear door opened before I reached it. Matteo—the broad-shouldered man with the scarred neck who had watched me all night—stood holding the door open. He didn't draw a gun. He didn't look mean. He just gestured toward the plush, heated leather seats inside.
“Get in, Miss Bellini,” Matteo said quietly. “Don Romano doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
I looked back at the dark alley, then at the cash in my hand. I had sixty-four dollars in my bank account and a landlord who threatened eviction every third of the month. More than that, the look in the old consigliere’s eyes when I had uttered my mother’s name was the first real clue I had seen in five long, agonizing years.
I stepped into the vehicle.
The door clicked shut with an airtight seal, cutting off the noise of the city.
Salvo Romano sat on the far side of the rear cabin. He had changed his clothes. The ruined shoe and wine-stained trousers were gone, replaced by a dark navy sweater that made his broad shoulders look even larger, paired with clean slacks. A crystal glass of amber liquid rested between his long fingers.
The vehicle pulled out into the Manhattan traffic, its engine humming like a sleeping predator.
“You didn't run,” Salvo observed, his voice low and smooth in the dim cabin light.
“Running costs money,” I replied, staring straight ahead at the leather headrest in front of me. “And running from a Romano usually gets people shot in the back.”
A small, genuine chuckle escaped Salvo’s lips. It was a dark, surprisingly warm sound that sent a strange shudder down my spine.
“You have a sharp tongue, Clara. Just like your mother.”
I turned my head instantly, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You knew her? You knew Elena Bellini?”
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Salvo set his glass down in the silver cup holder. He turned to face me fully, the streetlights outside casting long, amber shadows across his sharp jawline and high cheekbones.
“I didn't know her,” Salvo said softly. “My father did. And before he died two years ago, he gave me a list of three names that must never be touched in this city. Your mother’s name was at the top of that list.”
