Chapter 2 - The Dead Man’s Watch
I knew the watch immediately.
Cheap silver face.
Brown leather strap.
A scratch beside the number seven.
My father had worn it every day.
After his funeral, my mother told me it had been lost in the accident.
Yet Martin was holding it.
“Where did you get that?”
Martin looked toward the locked door.
“Elena, give me the photograph.”
“No.”
“Give it to me.”
“My father’s watch.”
His jaw tightened.
“Things happened before you worked here.”
“Clearly.”
“Things you don’t understand.”
“Then explain them.”
He stepped closer.
I backed away.
“Your father made choices.”
“My father repaired restaurant equipment.”
Martin gave a bitter laugh.
“That’s what your mother told you?”
My heart pounded.
“Where is he?”
Martin said nothing.
I held up the photograph.
“Someone wrote that he didn’t die.”
“That person wants to use you.”
“Is my father alive?”
Martin looked at me.
And that hesitation answered more than words could.
I moved toward the front of the restaurant.
Martin blocked me.
“You leave through the employee door.”
“It’s locked.”
“I’ll unlock it.”
“My phone told me not to.”
His face changed.
“Who texted you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
He reached toward me.
The front doors opened.
Martin stopped instantly.
Luca walked back into Belladonna.
Two men followed him now.
Neither looked like a customer.
Luca saw my face.
Then Martin.
Then the watch.
“Step away from her.”
Martin’s hand dropped.
“Mr. Vargo.”
“Now.”
Martin moved.
Luca approached me.
“What happened?”
I showed him the photograph.
For the first time all night, genuine shock crossed his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“My pocket.”
“Who put it there?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned the photograph over.
His expression hardened when he read the message.
“You knew my father.”
Luca didn’t answer immediately.
“His name was Daniel Marlowe.”
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
“How?”
Luca looked toward Martin.
“Not here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Good.”
That surprised me.
“You shouldn’t.”
He gestured toward one of his men.
“Call a car. She chooses the destination.”
“I’m going home.”
“Then we’ll make sure you get there.”
“I don’t need protection.”
Luca glanced at the photograph.
“Tonight you do.”
Martin laughed nervously.
“This is ridiculous.”
Luca turned.
“Why do you have Daniel’s watch?”
Martin went pale.
“It was left here years ago.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“Belladonna opened eight years ago.”
Silence.
“My father died twelve years ago,” I whispered.
Luca nodded.
Martin ran.
He made it three steps.
One of Luca’s men blocked the doorway.
No weapon.
No violence.
Just a body in the way.
Martin stopped.
Luca approached him.
“Where did you get the watch?”
Martin’s eyes darted toward me.
“I can’t tell you.”
Luca’s voice became quieter.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“Storage.”
“What storage?”
Martin swallowed.
“Room 417.”
The numbers.
4-1-7.
I stared at Luca.
“The matchbook.”
He nodded.
Belladonna didn’t have a fourth floor.
But the building did.
The upper floors had supposedly been vacant for years.
Luca told me to stay downstairs.
I refused.
“My father is involved.”
“That is precisely why you stay.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then something almost amused crossed his face.
“Apparently not.”
We took the service elevator.
Fourth floor.
The hallway smelled of dust.
Room 417 had no number on its door.
Only scratches where a plaque had been removed.
Martin had a key.
Inside was an abandoned office.
Desk.
Filing cabinets.
Old security equipment.
Boxes of restaurant records.
I searched before anyone could stop me.
One box contained photographs.
Men entering restaurants.
Cars.
License plates.
Bankers.
Politicians.
Judges.
Belladonna had apparently been watching powerful people for years.
Then I found a folder.
MARLOWE, DANIEL.
My hands shook.
Inside were newspaper clippings about my father’s death.
Except the accident report had been altered.
One page listed no body recovered.
Another listed “identification confirmed.”
Both carried the same case number.
“That’s impossible.”
Luca took the pages.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He stared at the photograph of my father.
“Twelve years ago, Daniel Marlowe saved my life.”
I couldn’t speak.
Luca continued.
“I was twenty-six. Stupid enough to think being feared made me untouchable. Someone inside my family sold information about me. Daniel discovered it.”
“My father?”
“He worked maintenance at a private club. He overheard something he wasn’t supposed to hear.”
“What?”
“The name of the man arranging my murder.”
I looked toward Martin.
Martin shook his head.
“Don’t.”
Luca ignored him.
“Daniel warned me. The attack failed. Three days later, his car went off a bridge.”
My legs weakened.
“You thought he died.”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t.”
“I don’t know.”
A floorboard creaked outside.
Everyone turned.
One of Luca’s men opened the door.
Empty hallway.
Then my phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
ASK LUCA WHO ORDERED YOUR FATHER’S CAR OFF THE BRIDGE.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Luca read my expression.
“What?”
I showed him.
He went completely still.
“Answer it,” I said.
“Elena—”
“Who ordered it?”
His jaw tightened.
“Luca.”
He finally spoke.
“My father.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I stepped backward.
“You knew?”
“Not until later.”
“How much later?”
“Years.”
“And you did nothing?”
“You don’t know what I did.”
“I know my mother spent twelve years believing her husband was dead.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
I moved toward the door.
Luca didn’t stop me.
That somehow made me angrier.
I went home alone.
At 2:13 a.m., I woke my mother.
I placed the photograph on the kitchen table.
She looked at it.
The color left her face.
Then she began crying.
Not confused tears.
Guilty tears.
“Mom.”
She covered her mouth.
“Tell me Dad died.”
She couldn’t.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
My entire childhood rearranged itself in one terrible second.
“Where is he?”
She looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered:
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Anymore?”
She stood.
Walked to her bedroom.
Returned carrying a key.
A bank deposit key.
“Your father gave me this three months after his funeral.”
I stared at her.
“You saw him after he died?”
“Once.”
My phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
DON’T OPEN THE BOX.
Then came another message.
YOUR MOTHER ALREADY KNOWS WHAT’S INSIDE.
I looked up.
My mother was staring at my phone.
She wasn’t surprised.
She reached for the key.
But before she could take it, someone knocked three times on our apartment door.
May you like
My mother whispered one name.
“Daniel.”
