Chapter 2 - The Name Rosalia Never Mentioned
Tessa did not sit.
That was the first mistake everybody expected her to make.
Salvatore Vitiello had ordered politicians, businessmen, judges, and men twice her size to sit down. They usually sat before his sentence was finished.
Tessa picked up the silver pitcher instead.
"I have six tables' worth of prep in the kitchen."
David made a tiny choking sound.
Mateo looked down, almost as if hiding amusement.
Salvatore studied her.
Then he smiled.
"Rosalia did that too."
"My great-grandmother worked in a cannery."
"Your great-grandmother lied beautifully."
That erased Tessa's irritation.
"What does that mean?"
Salvatore reached inside his coat.
Three bodyguards moved instinctively.
Mateo lifted one hand.
They stopped.
Salvatore removed a small leather wallet and pulled out an old photograph.
He placed it on the white tablecloth.
Tessa stared.
The photograph was faded nearly to brown.
Four young people stood beside an old stone farmhouse beneath a Sicilian sun.
One was unmistakably Salvatore, younger by fifty years.
Beside him stood a laughing woman with dark hair tied under a scarf.
Tessa's breath caught.
She had seen that woman in a hundred family photographs.
Rosalia Bellomo.
Her great-grandmother.
"That's impossible."
"No," Salvatore said. "Just inconvenient."
Tessa picked up the photograph carefully.
Rosalia looked perhaps nineteen.
Salvatore couldn't have been more than twenty.
Behind them stood another young man and a woman Tessa did not recognize.
There was writing on the back.
Four names.
Salvatore.
Rosalia.
Antonio.
Lucia.
Beneath them, a date from 1968.
Tessa looked up.
"You knew her?"
Salvatore's expression darkened.
"Everyone in our village knew Rosalia. But only three people knew what she did the night they came for me."
Mateo sat very still.
"You've never told me this."
"It wasn't your story."
Salvatore looked at Tessa.
"It belonged to hers."
Tessa's hands grew cold.
Her great-grandmother had died when Tessa was sixteen.
To Tessa, Rosalia had been garlic on her fingers, strong coffee before sunrise, an old wooden spoon she threatened people with, and a stubborn refusal to speak English when angry.
She had never mentioned Salvatore Vitiello.
Not once.
"What happened?"
Salvatore leaned back.
"In 1968, men from Palermo came looking for my father. They couldn't find him, so they decided his son would be useful."
"You?"
"I was nineteen and stupid enough to believe carrying a knife made me immortal."
Mateo's mouth tightened.
Salvatore ignored him.
"They caught me near the olive grove. Rosalia saw it happen. She ran three kilometers through the hills to warn my uncle. Then she came back."
Tessa frowned.
"Came back?"
"With a hunting rifle she barely knew how to use."
For the first time that evening, one of Salvatore's guards smiled.
Salvatore pointed at the photograph.
"That woman saved me by convincing four armed men she was crazier than they were."
That sounded exactly like Rosalia.
Tessa's eyes burned unexpectedly.
"What secret did she take?"
Salvatore's face closed.
"Not here."
Tessa glanced around.
The restaurant was already locked down with six armed security men.
"If this isn't private, where is?"
Mateo answered.
"My father's concern isn't the room."
"It's the people listening to the room."
Tessa looked toward the ceiling.
Cameras.
Speakers.
The restaurant suddenly felt less glamorous and more like a cage.
David approached carefully.
"Mr. Vitiello, is everything satisfactory?"
Salvatore looked at him.
"No."
David's face collapsed.
"The girl is sitting with us."
"I'm sorry?"
"Bring another chair."
David almost tripped over himself obeying.
Tessa turned to Mateo.
"I can't do this."
"Do what?"
"Whatever this is."
His expression softened.
"You can leave."
Salvatore's eyes narrowed.
Mateo continued.
"No one is forcing her to stay."
The statement sounded like it was meant for his father more than Tessa.
Tessa noticed.
So did Salvatore.
An old argument passed silently between them.
Then Salvatore shrugged.
"Fine. She leaves."
Tessa almost exhaled.
"With two guards."
"No."
"One."
"No."
"Mateo."
"She said no."
Something changed in Salvatore's expression.
Not anger.
Approval.
Tessa hated that even more.
She folded her arms.
"You don't get to negotiate my life like a seafood order."
Mateo looked at her.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"More than you think."
Before she could answer, the restaurant lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went black.
The emergency lamps activated immediately, washing the dining room in dim red light.
Every Vitiello guard moved at once.
Weapons appeared beneath jackets.
Someone grabbed Tessa's arm.
She reacted instinctively and drove her elbow backward.
A man cursed.
Then Mateo was there.
His body came between her and the room.
"Stay behind me."
"I'm not—"
A sharp crack sounded from the front window.
Glass fractured.
Someone shouted.
The bodyguards pushed Salvatore toward the private hallway.
Mateo caught Tessa around the waist as another crack split through the dining room.
He dragged her behind a marble service counter.
"What is happening?"
"Someone knew my father was here."
"That seems like a you problem."
Mateo actually looked at her.
Even now.
Even crouched under a marble counter while alarms screamed.
"Tessa."
"What?"
"Your timing is incredible."
The emergency lights steadied.
No bullets followed.
One of Mateo's men approached.
"No shooter. Window was hit from outside."
"With what?"
The guard held up a small metal cylinder.
Mateo's expression changed.
It wasn't ammunition.
It was a message container.
Salvatore emerged from the hallway despite everyone ordering him not to.
"Open it."
The cylinder contained one strip of paper.
Mateo unfolded it.
Tessa watched the blood drain from his face.
"What does it say?"
He didn't answer.
Salvatore grabbed the paper.
One line.
Written in Italian.
Rosalia should have kept the key buried.
Tessa stopped breathing.
"What key?"
Salvatore looked at her.
That was when Tessa remembered something she had not thought about in eight years.
The final afternoon of Rosalia's life.
Her great-grandmother had been too weak to stand.
She'd called sixteen-year-old Tessa to her bedside, pressed an old brass key into her palm, and whispered:
"Never give this to a man who asks for it."
Tessa had assumed it opened some forgotten trunk.
She had put it in a jewelry box.
Then forgotten it.
Until now.
Mateo saw the answer on her face.
"You have it."
Tessa stepped backward.
"No."
"Tessa."
"I said no."
Salvatore's voice went dangerously quiet.
"Girl, if Rosalia gave you a key, you need protection."
"I need to go home."
"That may be the first place they'll look."
The implication turned her blood cold.
Tessa reached for her phone.
There were four missed calls.
All from her mother.
Then a text appeared.
Tess, someone broke into Grandma Rosa's old house. Call me.
Another message arrived.
This one came from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
Tessa's apartment door.
Taken from the hallway.
Underneath were six words.
Bring the key. Come alone. Midnight.
Mateo read the message over her shoulder.
His face changed so completely that even Salvatore went quiet.
The man who had watched Tessa for three weeks with cool, controlled interest disappeared.
What remained was the mafia boss people whispered about.
"No," Mateo said.
Tessa looked at him.
"No what?"
May you like
His eyes lifted to hers.
"You're not going anywhere alone."
