Chapter 1 - THE RING THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED
“Before you call your mother,” Salvatore Moretti said, “you need to know why she told you I was dead.”
Griffin Miller stared at him.
The restaurant seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
“My mother never told me anything about you.”
Salvatore's face changed.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Not even my name?”
Griffin shook her head.
He looked toward the rain-streaked windows, and for one terrible moment, the most feared man in Brooklyn appeared completely lost.
“Then she kept her promise,” he whispered.
Griffin stepped backward.
“What promise?”
Salvatore looked at her again.
“Your mother and I knew each other a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Twenty-three years.”
Griffin felt her stomach tighten.
She was twenty-two.
The number meant something.
She didn't want it to.
Behind her, Mr. Henderson approached.
“Miss Miller, is there a problem?”
Salvatore turned.
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
Henderson immediately stopped.
“Then perhaps Miss Miller should return to work.”
Salvatore looked at Griffin's trembling hands.
“She needs a break.”
“Of course, Mr. Moretti.”
Griffin's face burned.
“I don't need anyone arranging my breaks.”
Salvatore looked surprised.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
It was brief.
Almost painful.
“You sound like her.”
Griffin swallowed.
“Like who?”
“Your mother.”
She tightened her grip on the wine bottle.
“Mr. Moretti, I don't know what you're trying to tell me, but my mother is sick. She's waiting for medication I haven't been able to pick up, and I cannot afford to lose this job because you think you recognize somebody from twenty years ago.”
Salvatore went still.
“She's sick?”
Griffin immediately regretted speaking.
“Forget I said that.”
“What kind of illness?”
“That's private.”
He nodded.
“You're right.”
She blinked.
The apology was the last thing she'd expected.
Salvatore stepped aside.
“You may finish your shift.”
Griffin stared at him.
“That's it?”
“For now.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a business card.
He placed it on the table.
“If your mother is willing to speak to me, ask her to call.”
Griffin didn't touch it.
Salvatore's eyes softened.
“Please.”
That word frightened her more than his reputation.
Because men like Salvatore Moretti didn't say please.
Not unless something mattered desperately.
She took the card.
Then returned to the kitchen.
But she could still feel his eyes following her.
And when she finally glanced back, she saw him staring at the black ring on his finger.
As though it had suddenly become unbearably heavy.
Griffin's mother lived in a small apartment above a pharmacy in Brooklyn.
The building was old.
The radiator rattled.
The elevator had been broken for three weeks.
By the time Griffin climbed the four flights of stairs, her legs were shaking.
She unlocked the door quietly.
“Mom?”
A cough came from the bedroom.
“In here, sweetheart.”
Roman Miller lay beneath a faded blue quilt.
At forty-seven, she still had beautiful dark hair, though illness had left silver streaks near her temples.
Her cheeks were hollow.
Her eyes tired.
But she smiled when Griffin entered.
“Long shift?”
“Double.”
“Did you eat?”
Griffin smiled faintly.
“Did you?”
Roman looked away.
That was answer enough.
Griffin placed a paper bag on the bedside table.
“Soup from work.”
“You shouldn't bring things home.”
“Chef said I could.”
Roman smiled.
“You always were stubborn.”
Griffin sat beside her.
For a moment, she watched her mother's face.
Then she reached into her apron pocket.
And removed Salvatore's card.
“Mom.”
Roman looked at it.
Her smile vanished.
Griffin felt cold.
“Do you know him?”
Roman didn't answer.
“Salvatore Moretti.”
Her mother closed her eyes.
Griffin leaned forward.
“Mom?”
Roman whispered, “Where did you get that?”
“He came into the restaurant.”
Roman's breathing changed.
“What did he say?”
Griffin swallowed.
“He asked about you.”
Her mother's hands began trembling.
Then Griffin said the words that changed everything.
“He told me you said he was dead.”
Roman made a sound Griffin had never heard before.
Not a cry.
Not a scream.
Something broken between the two.
She reached for the bedside drawer.
Opened it.
And pulled out a small velvet pouch.
Griffin stared.
Her mother hadn't touched that pouch in twelve years.
Roman emptied it into her palm.
A silver ring fell onto the blanket.
Its face held a two-headed hawk clutching a thorned rose.
A tiny crescent had been carved along the edge.
Griffin's throat tightened.
“Mom.”
Roman looked at the ring.
Then whispered, “I thought I'd buried that life.”
“Who is he?”
Her mother began crying.
Griffin moved closer.
“Please tell me.”
Roman lifted her eyes.
And said, “Salvatore Moretti was the man I loved before you were born.”
Griffin stopped breathing.
May you like
Then her mother added:
“And he's the reason I spent twenty-two years hiding you.”
