Chapter 2 - THE NAME THAT MADE A KING TREMBLE
Vincenzo Moretti had never been frightened of a telephone.
He had faced rival syndicates, federal investigations, assassination attempts, and men who would have happily put a bullet through his heart.
But when Clara held out that cheap plastic Nokia, something in her expression made him hesitate.
He took it.
“Who is this?”
The voice on the other end was quiet.
“Salvatore Vitale.”
Enzo stopped breathing.
The name belonged to a man who had ruled parts of Sicily's criminal underworld for more than thirty years.
A man whose alliances stretched across Europe.
A man whose reputation was older and darker than the Moretti family's entire American empire.
Enzo had heard stories about him since childhood.
He had never met him.
And he had certainly never imagined speaking to him through a waitress's phone.
“Don Salvatore,” Enzo said carefully.
“Where is my daughter?”
Enzo looked at Clara.
The bruised woman on the floor.
The blood on her cheek.
The broken glass.
His stomach tightened.
“Your daughter?”
Salvatore's voice became colder.
“Lucia Vitale.”
Enzo looked at her again.
Clara Evans.
The quiet waitress.
The woman he'd accused of stealing.
The woman he'd struck in front of an entire room.
His mind struggled to connect the two identities.
Salvatore spoke again.
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Is she standing?”
Enzo hesitated.
“No.”
Silence.
Then:
“Did you put your hands on her?”
Enzo swallowed.
The entire lounge seemed to lean toward him.
“Yes.”
The answer came out barely above a whisper.
On the other end, Salvatore exhaled.
Slowly.
“Then listen carefully, Vincenzo.”
Enzo closed his eyes.
“You will put that telephone back in my daughter's hand.”
A pause.
“You will not touch her again.”
Another pause.
“And if she wants to leave, you will let her walk out.”
Enzo looked at Clara.
For the first time that night, he saw something other than a suspected thief.
He saw a woman bleeding because of him.
He handed the phone back.
Clara took it with shaking fingers.
“Papa?”
“Lucia, listen to me.”
Her eyes filled.
“I'm listening.”
“Do you want to come home?”
She looked toward the doors.
The rain.
The city.
The life she'd built under another name.
Then whispered:
“I don't know.”
Salvatore was silent.
Then said:
“Then you don't have to decide tonight.”
Clara began crying.
For four years, she'd imagined that calling her father would mean surrendering her freedom.
But he wasn't ordering her home.
May you like
He was asking what she wanted.
And somehow, that made the tears come harder.
