Chapter 1 - THE MAN WHO FINALLY STOPPED SHOUTING
The most feared man in the city hurled a coffee mug past my head, then demanded to know if I understood who I was talking to.
I told him that if he raised his voice one more time, I’d throw him out of my diner.
What happened next stunned everyone, especially when the mafia boss reached inside his coat.
His name was Alessandro Romano.
People usually lowered their voices when they said that name.
I didn’t.
Maybe I was too tired to be smart.
It was 9:42 on a Wednesday night, and I’d been awake since 4:18 that morning, when my mother’s oxygen alarm dragged me out of bed.
By dinner, I’d already argued with an insurance company, ignored three hospital bills, and calculated that I was twenty-nine dollars short on Friday’s rent.
So when Alessandro’s coffee cup exploded against the wall six inches from my head, something inside me simply refused to bend.
Coffee streaked down the yellow paint.
Broken porcelain scattered around my shoes.
The entire diner went silent.
“If you shout one more time,” I said, setting the coffee pot down, “I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Dana, the teenage waitress behind the register, looked like she might faint.
Alessandro slowly turned toward me.
Two of his men stood by the entrance.
His right-hand man, Victor Russo, watched from beside the jukebox.
“You know who I am?” Alessandro asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you know what happens when people waste my time.”
I pointed at the broken mug.
“And you know what happens when customers throw dishes.”
Victor actually laughed, though he quickly covered it with a cough.
“That mug costs three dollars,” I continued. “If you want another coffee, I’ll bring one. If you want to keep screaming and breaking things, pay your bill and leave.”
Alessandro stepped closer.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
I was scared.
Of course I was.
But after fourteen months of watching my mother struggle to breathe while strangers behind desks decided which treatments they would pay for, fear had lost some of its authority over me.
Alessandro leaned toward me.
“You think you’re brave?”
“No,” I said. “I think I have six tables, two customers waiting for pie, and eleven minutes until the kitchen closes.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Then his hand disappeared inside his coat.
Dana gasped.
Victor straightened.
I froze.
Alessandro pulled out a black leather wallet.
He removed a hundred-dollar bill and laid it carefully on the counter.
“For the mug.”
I stared at the money.
“The mug was three dollars.”
“Keep the change.”
“No.”
I opened the register.
Then, while every person in Rosie’s Diner watched, I counted out ninety-seven dollars and pushed it toward the most feared man in the city.
Alessandro stared at the change.
Then he looked at me.
For the first time all night, he wasn’t angry.
He looked curious.
And somehow, that frightened me even more.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I pointed at the plastic tag pinned above my apron.
“Mara Collins.”
His eyes dropped to it.
Then lifted immediately.
“Collins?”
“Yes.”
“Rosalie Collins is your mother?”
I stopped.
Nobody called my mother Rosalie.
Not anymore.
To everyone in the neighborhood, she was Rosie.
Owner of Rosie’s Diner for thirty-one years.
Maker of blueberry pie.
Terrible singer.
The woman currently sleeping at home attached to an oxygen concentrator.
“How do you know my mother?”
Alessandro’s entire expression changed.
The anger disappeared.
So did the curiosity.
Something colder took its place.
Victor stopped smiling.
Alessandro looked toward the photographs lining the wall behind the counter.
Neighborhood Little League teams.
Police officers.
Birthday parties.
Mom standing beneath the original Rosie’s sign twenty-seven years younger.
Then Alessandro saw one photograph near the top.
He stepped closer.
“That.”
I followed his gaze.
The picture had been taken before I was born.
Mom stood beside the old counter with three paramedics.
Behind them, half hidden by a coffee machine, was a teenage boy wearing a dark jacket.
The image was faded.
I had looked at it a thousand times without caring.
Alessandro reached toward the frame.
Then stopped before touching it.
“Where did she get this?”
“My mother?”
“This photograph.”
“I don’t know.”
Victor came beside him.
His face went pale.
“Boss.”
Alessandro ignored him.
He pointed at the boy.
“Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“That’s my brother.”
My mouth went dry.
I knew the Romano history the way most people in our city did.
Alessandro Romano had inherited his family organization at twenty-six after a decade of funerals, arrests and disappearances.
His father, Vittorio Romano, had been killed in what newspapers called an organized-crime dispute.
His younger brother Luca had died less than a year later.
At least that was what everyone believed.
I looked at the photograph again.
“How old was he?”
“Sixteen.”
“When did he die?”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened.
“Four months before this picture was dated.”
I looked at the white date stamped beneath the photograph.
October 12, 2002.
My skin went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
He turned toward me.
“That’s why I’m here.”
I glanced at the shattered mug.
“You came here because of an old photograph?”
“No.”
He reached inside his coat again.
This time I didn’t flinch.
He removed a folded envelope.
Inside was another photograph.
Newer.
Taken somewhere outside.
A man around forty stood beside a black pickup truck.
Dark hair.
Roman nose.
Same eyes as Alessandro.
On the back, one sentence had been written by hand.
Ask Rosie why she buried a living Romano.
I stared at it.
“When did you get this?”
“Yesterday.”
“Who sent it?”
“No return address.”
Victor spoke quietly.
“But the envelope was mailed from three blocks away.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
Three blocks.
Our neighborhood.
Alessandro folded the picture again.
“I came here tonight to speak to Rosie.”
“She isn’t here.”
“I figured that out.”
“That’s why you threw the mug?”
His eyes narrowed.
Victor coughed again.
Alessandro exhaled.
“I received some additional bad news before you approached the table.”
“That still doesn’t make the mug less broken.”
For one second, Victor looked like he might laugh again.
Alessandro pulled out three dollars.
I accepted it.
Then he pocketed the ninety-seven.
“Tell your mother Alessandro Romano needs to speak to her.”
“I’m not delivering threats.”
“It isn’t one.”
“You’re not particularly convincing.”
His gaze held mine.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Tell her I’m asking about Luca.”
Something moved through me.
Not recognition.
Memory.
Four nights earlier, Mom had been feverish after a brutal coughing spell.
I had been helping her into bed when she grabbed my wrist.
She whispered a name.
I thought she was confused.
Luca.
Then:
I promised him.
At the time, I assumed it was some memory from before I was born.
Now my fingers went cold.
Alessandro noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You've heard the name.”
I hated how easily he read me.
“I’ve heard a lot of names.”
“Mara.”
“You don't get to interrogate me.”
“This matters.”
“So does my mother being able to breathe.”
That stopped him.
I pulled off my apron.
“We’re closed.”
Dana immediately flipped the sign.
Victor glanced toward Alessandro.
The boss looked at me for several seconds.
Then placed something else on the counter.
A business card.
No title.
Just:
ALESSANDRO ROMANO
and a phone number.
“You call that number if anyone comes here asking about the photograph.”
“Why would they?”
“Because whoever sent it wanted me looking at your mother.”
He turned toward the door.
“And if they wanted me looking here…”
He looked back.
“They already know Rosie knows something.”
He and his men left.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Dana whispered:
“Are we alive?”
Victor, still holding the door, glanced back at her.
“For now.”
“Not funny,” she said.
“Little funny.”
Then he disappeared too.
I locked the door.
Dana came beside me.
“Mara.”
“Yeah?”
“Your mother knows the Romano family?”
“I don’t know.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm improvising.”
She pointed toward the photograph.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at the boy standing behind my mother twenty-four years earlier.
Luca Romano.
Dead four months before the picture was taken.
“I’m going home.”
Mom was awake when I arrived.
She sat in her recliner under a knitted blue blanket, oxygen tube beneath her nose, a half-finished crossword on her lap.
“You're late.”
“We had a customer.”
“What kind?”
“The kind who throws coffee mugs.”
She frowned.
I placed Alessandro’s photograph on the table.
Mom looked down.
Everything in her face changed.
Her hand began shaking.
“Where did you get that?”
“Alessandro Romano.”
The oxygen machine hummed between us.
Mom closed her eyes.
“Mara…”
“Who is Luca?”
She turned her face away.
“I need you to listen to me.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No more protecting me by keeping me stupid.”
Her eyes opened.
Pain filled them.
“This isn't about protecting you from embarrassment.”
“What is it about?”
“Keeping you alive.”
A knock sounded downstairs.
Three hard knocks.
Mom’s face drained completely.
“What time is it?”
“Ten forty-eight.”
She struggled to stand.
“Turn off the lights.”
“What?”
“Now.”
Another knock.
Then a man’s voice.
“Mara Collins?”
I froze.
Mom grabbed my hand with surprising strength.
“Do not open that door.”
“Who is it?”
She whispered a name I had never heard.
“Salvatore.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
Mom looked at the photograph of Luca.
“Alessandro’s uncle.”
Another knock.
Then the man outside called:
“Rosie, we know you're home.”
Mom looked at me.
May you like
And whispered:
“He’s the reason Luca had to die.”
