Chapter 1 - The Man Outside Table Seven
The first time I fed Arthur, I thought he was going to steal my spoon.
That sounds cruel now.
At the time, it was practical.
My name is Elena Brooks, and in November of that year I was twenty-eight years old, six weeks behind on my electric bill, three hundred dollars short on rent, and working double shifts at a small Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End called Bellini’s.
Bellini’s had eleven indoor tables, six outside when the weather allowed, and exactly one employee who regularly ignored the owner’s rule about giving food away.
Me.
The old man began appearing around the middle of October.
He never begged.
That was what I noticed first.
He would sit on the stone ledge across from our sidewalk tables with an old brown coat buttoned badly over a gray shirt. His hair was silver and too long around the ears. His shoes had split along the sides.
People passed him constantly.
Tourists.
Bankers.
College students.
Men in thousand-dollar coats.
Most glanced away before their eyes fully landed on him.
He never held out a cup.
Never asked for money.
Sometimes he stared at the traffic.
Sometimes he watched the pigeons.
Sometimes he seemed to be waiting for somebody who had forgotten where to find him.
The first meal I gave him was baked ziti that a customer sent back because there was “too much cheese.”
There is no such thing.
I carried the plate outside after my shift.
“You hungry?”
He looked at me.
His eyes were startling.
Dark brown.
Sharp for half a second.
Then confused again.
I set the plate on the ledge.
“You don’t have to talk.”
He stared at the food.
“It’s not poisoned.”
Nothing.
“I’m a waitress, not a serial killer.”
His mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
He ate.
Slowly.
Like somebody who had learned that food might disappear if he trusted it too quickly.
After that, I started saving things.
Bread.
Soup.
Half a chicken cutlet nobody touched.
Coffee.
Once, tiramisu.
He hated tiramisu.
“You’re the first homeless Italian man I’ve ever met who dislikes tiramisu.”
He looked offended.
That was the day I named him Arthur.
Not because he told me his name.
Because he reminded me of my grandfather’s old friend Arthur, who wore bad coats and judged desserts harshly.
“You need a name if I’m going to keep arguing with you.”
He tapped his chest.
“V…”
That was all.
“Victor?”
He frowned.
“Vincent?”
Nothing.
“Voldemort?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Okay. Arthur it is.”
Three weeks later, everything changed.
It was four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon.
Cold sunlight reflected off the restaurant windows.
Lunch rush was over.
Dinner hadn’t started.
I had just clocked out for twenty minutes when I noticed Arthur sitting outside Table Seven.
Not across the street.
At one of our tables.
My boss would have thrown him out immediately.
So I grabbed my employee meal before anybody noticed.
Penne with sausage.
Bread.
Water.
I stepped outside.
“You upgraded.”
Arthur looked up.
“Window seat.”
No reaction.
“Excellent conversation as always.”
I sat across from him.
His hands were shaking badly.
I noticed that immediately.
“Cold?”
He shook his head.
“Hungry?”
A tiny nod.
I twirled some pasta onto a fork.
He tried to take it.
His fingers trembled too much.
“Hey.”
I softened my voice.
“It’s okay.”
He looked embarrassed.
That hurt me more than it should have.
“Here.”
I lifted the fork carefully.
“You fed yourself yesterday. Today I’m helping. Tomorrow you can insult my cooking.”
Bellini’s chef would have murdered me for calling it mine.
Arthur opened his mouth reluctantly.
I fed him one bite.
Then another.
That was when the black SUV stopped at the curb.
I barely noticed.
Black luxury cars were normal in the North End.
Then another stopped behind it.
And a third.
I lowered the fork.
Four men stepped out.
Black suits.
Dark coats.
Two wore sunglasses despite the November shade.
Everything about them said security.
Or danger.
Usually those things overlap.
I stood.
Arthur grabbed my wrist.
Not hard.
Terrified.
“Easy.”
His eyes locked on the SUVs.
“No.”
It was the clearest word I had ever heard from him.
“No.”
I stepped between him and the street.
One of the men started toward us.
“Stay back.”
He stopped.
Apparently he had not expected the waitress to give orders.
“Ma’am.”
“I said stay back.”
Another door opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Maybe thirty-seven.
Black wool coat over a charcoal suit.
Dark hair.
Trim beard.
No sunglasses.
He did not move like his security men.
He moved like the men were there because of him.
The sidewalk changed.
That sounds stupid.
But it did.
People looked.
Then looked away.
The man took three slow steps toward us.
Arthur began shaking harder.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“You know him?”
No answer.
The stranger stopped six feet away.
For several seconds, he stared at Arthur.
His face showed nothing.
Then his eyes dropped toward Arthur’s hand.
Arthur’s coat sleeve had pulled back when he grabbed me.
Around his wrist was an old black leather bracelet.
Cracked.
Almost falling apart.
A small silver medallion hung from it.
The stranger stopped breathing.
I saw it.
Not dramatically.
Just one breath that never arrived.
He stepped closer.
One of the bodyguards whispered:
“Mr. Marchetti?”
The name hit me.
Marchetti.
Everybody in Boston knew the name.
Shipping.
Nightclubs.
Construction.
Restaurants.
And the other businesses people didn’t discuss when microphones were present.
Dante Marchetti.
I had seen photographs.
Never close enough to recognize him instantly.
Until now.
He ignored the guard.
His eyes stayed on Arthur.
“Where did he get that bracelet?”
I moved farther between them.
“I don’t know.”
Dante looked at me.
His eyes were colder than the November air.
“How long has he been here?”
“Three weeks.”
Something moved across his face.
“Three weeks?”
“That I know of.”
“You’ve been feeding him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
The question irritated me.
“Because he was hungry.”
Dante stared at me.
Like I had answered in another language.
Behind me, Arthur whispered:
“Rose.”
I turned.
“What?”
His eyes were fixed on Dante.
“Rose.”
Dante’s face changed.
Completely.
He stepped forward.
I raised my hand.
“Don’t.”
One of the bodyguards shifted.
Dante lifted two fingers.
The guard stopped.
Then Dante slowly removed something from inside his coat.
A photograph.
Old.
Folded.
He held it where Arthur could see.
A young couple stood beside a sailboat.
The man in the photograph was maybe forty.
Dark hair.
Broad shoulders.
Smiling.
The woman beside him had red hair.
On the man’s wrist—
the same black bracelet.
I looked from the photograph to Arthur.
My stomach dropped.
Dante’s voice was barely audible.
“Rose was my mother.”
Arthur stared at the picture.
His lower lip trembled.
Dante stepped closer.
Then, to my shock, the man half of Boston was rumored to fear dropped to one knee on the sidewalk.
He looked up at the homeless stranger I had been feeding from rejected restaurant plates.
His voice broke.
“Dad?”
Arthur looked at him.
Nothing.
No recognition.
Dante tried again.
“Dad, it’s me.”
Arthur’s face remained empty.
Dante swallowed.
Seven seconds passed.
Maybe ten.
Then Arthur reached past him.
Toward me.
His fingers closed around my apron.
Dante looked at his father’s hand.
Then at me.
“Why does he know you?”
“I feed him.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Arthur suddenly whispered another word.
This time I heard it clearly.
“June.”
My blood turned cold.
Dante noticed.
“What?”
I stepped back.
Because June was my mother’s name.
And she had been dead for six years.
Dante rose slowly.
“You know that name.”
I couldn't lie.
“Yes.”
“Who is June?”
I looked at Arthur.
He was staring at me now.
Not confused.
Terrified.
And for the first time since I met him, he spoke a complete sentence.
“June said they would come.”
Dante went completely still.
“Who?”
Arthur looked toward the four bodyguards.
Then shook his head violently.
I gripped his hand.
“Arthur.”
Dante said:
“His name is Vittorio.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Vittorio Marchetti.”
His voice became colder.
“My father disappeared eight years ago.”
I stared at the trembling old man beside me.
Dante looked toward his security team.
Then back at me.
“My father has been missing for eight years.”
He paused.
“And apparently, before your mother died…”
May you like
His eyes narrowed.
“…she knew where he was.”
