Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY FATHER
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat at our kitchen table until sunrise, staring at the twenty-dollar bill beneath the yellow light.
My mother, Evelyn Bennett, came downstairs shortly after six.
She wore her faded blue robe and moved carefully, one hand resting against the banister.
Her treatments had left her tired, but she still insisted on making breakfast whenever she could.
"You're home early," she said.
"Late, actually."
She smiled.
"That's what happens when you work nights."
I wanted to smile back.
Instead, I placed the bill on the table.
"Mom, who is Victor Sloane?"
Her coffee cup slipped.
It struck the counter and shattered.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then my mother whispered, "Where did you hear that name?"
"At work."
Her face drained of color.
"Clara, listen to me. You need to leave that job."
"Why?"
"Just leave it."
"Mom."
She gripped the counter.
"Please."
I had seen my mother frightened before.
Medical bills frightened her.
Hospital test results frightened her.
The possibility of losing our apartment frightened her.
But this was different.
This was the kind of fear that recognized something from the past.
"Did Dad know him?"
She looked away.
"Your father knew a lot of people."
"Was Dad really killed in a construction accident?"
Silence.
My mother's eyes filled.
And suddenly I understood that the story I'd believed for eleven years had never been complete.
Before she could answer, her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Her expression changed again.
"Who is it?" I asked.
She declined the call.
"Nobody."
The phone rang a second time.
Then a third.
Finally, she switched it off.
"Mom, what's happening?"
She sat down slowly.
"Your father worked for a shipping company before he took the construction job."
"What company?"
She closed her eyes.
"Moretti Maritime."
I felt the room tilt.
Moretti.
Enzo Moretti.
My employer.
The man who had offered me a permanent job.
The man who had written Keep beside me beside my name.
"Did Enzo know him?"
My mother looked at me with something close to horror.
"Enzo Moretti was barely older than a boy when your father disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
She caught herself.
"Died."
But the word had come too late.
I stood.
"Mom."
She shook her head.
"Please don't ask me anything else today."
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I saw how badly her hands were trembling.
I helped her clean the broken cup.
Made her breakfast.
And promised I would be careful.
I did not promise to quit.
By five that evening, I was back at Vincenzo's.
Marco greeted me with his usual disapproval.
"You're seven minutes early."
"Should I apologize?"
He frowned.
"Don't get clever."
I went behind the bar.
The room was quiet.
Rain tapped against the windows.
Enzo stood near the entrance speaking to a tall man in a charcoal suit.
When he saw me, his conversation stopped.
"Clara."
"Mr. Moretti."
"Come upstairs."
I followed him.
This time, I didn't sit.
I placed the twenty-dollar bill on his desk.
"Who is Victor Sloane?"
Enzo looked down.
For the first time since I'd met him, his expression changed completely.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"Where did you get this?"
"He gave it to me."
"When?"
"Last night."
Enzo picked up the bill.
His eyes moved over the date.
Then he reached for his phone.
"Cancel my eight o'clock."
A voice answered through the speaker.
"Sir, that's the meeting with the investors."
"Cancel it."
"And the conference call?"
"Everything."
He ended the call.
I stared at him.
"Why?"
Enzo looked at me.
"Did Sloane touch you?"
"No."
"Did he follow you home?"
"I don't know."
He moved toward the office door.
"You're not leaving alone tonight."
I stepped in front of him.
"Stop."
He stopped.
"I asked you a question."
His jaw tightened.
"Victor Sloane is dangerous."
"That isn't an answer."
"He's connected to people who want to hurt my family."
"And my father?"
Enzo went still.
I watched him carefully.
"Did you know Daniel Bennett?"
He looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
"Yes."
The word struck me harder than I expected.
"How?"
"He worked for my father."
"Doing what?"
"Accounting. Shipping records. Internal audits."
I swallowed.
"My mother says he died in an accident."
Enzo's expression darkened.
"That's what the official report says."
"Do you believe it?"
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
"Do you?"
"No."
The office seemed suddenly airless.
I looked at the photograph of the red dress still lying on his desk.
"Why did you hire me?"
Enzo hesitated.
"Your application was legitimate."
"That's not what I asked."
He exhaled.
"I recognized your last name."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted to be certain."
"Of what?"
Before he could answer, someone knocked.
The tall man from downstairs entered.
"Enzo, we have a problem."
"What?"
"Someone left a package at the rear entrance."
He placed a small cardboard box on the desk.
Inside was an old silver watch.
The glass was cracked.
The leather strap was worn.
I recognized it immediately.
My father had worn that watch every day.
My mother told me it had been buried with him.
Beneath it lay a photograph.
My father stood beside a younger man.
Both were smiling.
The younger man was unmistakably Enzo Moretti.
May you like
And written across the photograph were the words:
YOUR FATHER DIDN'T DIE ALONE.
